She was very young, and yet she was not a pink-and-white or a rosy-cheeked English beauty, which he thought would have been in his nephew’s mind when he was seeking for the milkmaid of his imagination, and which he was unlikely to find.
Diona’s face was pointed and was entirely dominated by her large eyes. Her hair was the silvery gold of the sky at dawn.
She had, he thought, the ageless beauty which one saw in the Greek statues of their goddesses and which he had always thought was a classical beauty now lost in the annals of time.
There was no doubt that with her straight little nose, her perfectly chiselled lips, and her long neck, Diona resembled the statues he had seen many years ago in Greece.
He had also inspected them more recently in the museums in Paris, where they somehow se
