"
I accepted willingly, and left him soon afterward.
A little after the hour he had named I saw Livingstone's tall figure
turn the corner of Kensington Gardens, riding on Miss Brandon's right;
on her left was her uncle, Mr. Vavasour, her usual escort.
She was rarely lovely, certainly, as I was sure she would be, for Guy's
taste in feminine beauty was undisputed. Her features were delicate, but
very clearly cut; the nose and chin purely Grecian in their outline; the
dark gray eyes met you with an earnest, true expression, as if they had
nothing to conceal. Her broad Spanish hat suited her well, shading as it
did cheeks slightly flushed by exercise, and shining tresses of that
color which with us is nameless, and which across the Channel they
call--_blond cendre_. Her hand was strikingly perfect, even in its
gauntlet. It might have been modeled from that famous marble fragment of
which the banker-poet was so proud, and which Canova kissed so often.
There is a face which always reminds me of hers, though the figure in
the portrait is far more matured and developed than Constance's willowy
form--the picture of Queen Joanna of Naples in the Palazzo Doria.
I have stood before it long, trying in vain to read the riddle of the
haughty lineaments, and serene, untroubled eyes.
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