When he joined her party under the trees for breakfast—Madame Roque the evening before had invited him in the friendliest way to take his breakfast with them—when critically, dispassionately, in broad daylight he looked at the woman whom the boy had so worshipped, the man was completely disenchanted.
It was not that her maturity was without charm. On the contrary, she was of more than ordinary attractiveness. But she was not Nini, she did not resemble Nini in any particular. The girl had been slender, thin even, with a long slim throat, with a thin delicate hand. She had been timid, nervous; shy as West himself, always colouring faintly when he looked at her, when she spoke. The woman was largely built, finely developed, very self-possessed; such a woman as Catterson would have admired. B
