And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. Would that a certain major might cast upon her such a look. He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. He was a stranger.
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