Carl had never forgotten little Marie Tovesky's
eyes, and he was glad to have an opportunity to study them. The
brown iris, he found, was curiously slashed with yellow, the color
of sunflower honey, or of old amber. In each eye one of these
streaks must have been larger than the others, for the effect was
that of two dancing points of light, two little yellow bubbles,
such as rise in a glass of champagne. Sometimes they seemed like
the sparks from a forge. She seemed so easily excited, to kindle
with a fierce little flame if one but breathed upon her. "What
a waste," Carl reflected. "She ought to be doing all that for a
sweetheart. How awkwardly things come about!"
It was not very long before Marie sprang up out of the grass again.
"Wait a moment. I want to show you something." She ran away and
disappeared behind the low-growing apple trees.
"What a charming creature," Carl murmured. "I don't wonder that
her husband is jealous. But can't she walk? does she always run?"
Alexandra nodded. "Always. I don't see many people, but I don't
believe there are many like her, anywhere.
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