There, not a yard away, was the girl of his dreams demurely bowing
to Edith Cortlandt, her hand upon the arm of a swarthy man whom
Kirk knew at once as her father. He felt the blood rush blindingly
to his head, felt it drumming at his ears, knew that he must be
staring like a man bereft. Mrs. Cortlandt was speaking, and he
caught the name "Garavel" like a bugle-call. They turned upon him,
the Spanish gentleman bowed, and he saw that Chiquita's little
white-gloved hand was extended toward him.
She was the same dainty, desirous maid he had met in the forest,
but now splendidly radiant and perfect beyond his imagining. She
was no longer the simple wood-sprite, but a tiny princess in filmy
white, moulded by some master craftsman. As on that earlier
meeting, she was thrilling with some subtle mirth which flickered
on her lips or danced in the depths of her great, dark eyes.
How he ever got through that wild introductory moment without
making a show of himself, Anthony never knew, for his first
overwhelming impulse was to seize the girl and never let her
escape. It was the same feeling he had had at Las Savannas, only
ten times harder to resist. The general confusion, perhaps, helped
to hide his emotion, for around them eddied a constant human tide,
through which at last came Mr.
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