In Which is Abounding Trouble

I looked at Helena Emory, glad that she did not at first sight
recognize the intruder who had elicited her wrath,--for she seemed
almost more angry than perturbed, such being her nature. I thought she
had never been half so beautiful as now, never more alive, more
vibrantly and dynamically feminine than now. She had not even a scarf
about her head, so that all its Greek clarity of line, all its
tight-curling dark hair--almost breaking into four ringlets, two at
each white temple--were distinct to me as I looked at her, even in the
half light. Her face, with its wondrous dark eyes, was full toward me,
meeting this danger for such as it might be; so that, again, I saw the
sweet full oval of her brow and cheek and chin, with just these two
dark incipient curls above. I could not see the twin dark tendrils at
the white nape of her neck, but I knew they were there, as beautiful
as ever. Her mouth was always the sweetest God ever gave any
woman--and I repeat, I have seen and studied all the great portraits,
and found none so wholly good as that of Helena, done by Sargent in
his happiest vein. Now the red bow of her lips parted, as she stood,
one slender hand across her bosom, panting, but not in the least
afraid, or, at least, meeting her fear boldly, as one high-born
should.

She was all in white, with not the slightest jewel or ornament of any
kind. I saw that even the buckle at her waist was covered in white.
Her boots and her hair were dark; for Helena knew the real art of
dressing. She stood fairly between me and the deck light, so that all
her white figure was frank in its gentle curves; erect now, and
bravely drawn to all her five feet five, so that she might meet my
gaze--albeit through a mask--as fully as a lady should when she has
met affront.