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Against the rich Renaissance architecture and the blue of the sky-vista the massive head of Meyer and the blonde one of his young wife, the latter so expressive of half-proud, half-shy consciousness, stand out in wonderful vigour. From the scarlet cap on his thickly curling brown hair to the piece of money between his thumb and finger, the Burgomaster's picture is a virile and masterly portrait.
With a passionate gesture, Marius threw his arm around her waist, and, drawing her to his breast, covered her blonde hair with burning kisses. "Well, 'tis thus that I love you too!" he exclaimed, "and with all my soul, exclusively, and for life! What do I care for your parents? Do I know them? Your father does he exist? Your name it is mine, the spotless name of the Tregars.
I have no doubt he was waiting outside all through dinner; he rang the bell the very minute poor unsuspecting grandpa turned up the gas in the front parlour. But that's nothing to the one just before him." "What did he do?" asked Virgilia, with all her fine blonde intentness. Preciosa threw back her mop of chestnut hair. "Followed grandpa all the way home and would hardly let him have his dinner.
Her hair was of an ordinary shade of dark brown, but fine and thick and admirably arranged to set off her long, sensitive, high bred features. Her chin and mouth expressed decision and strong emotions. There was a vacant chair between Segur and Berersford and it was presently filled by a fat, middle-aged woman, neither blonde nor brunette, with a large, serene face.
That vigorous blonde woman, ruddy from golf and thin from horseback riding, with calm nerves and an endless fund of gossip, brought a vital thrill into the Long Island house.
The rôle of Gennaro was performed by the brother of the cantatrice, Léon d'Armilly, a young man of twenty, of delicate and graceful figure, and as decidedly blonde as his sister was brunette. Nature seemed to have made a great mistake in sex when this brother and sister were fashioned.
Three examples of blushing boyhood devoted themselves to a languid blonde girl of thirty-five, and the hostess herself was dancing with another tender youth, but she came forward, panting. "So good of you to come, dear," she cried. "This is Miss Wyeth, and these are my boys, Mr. " She spoke four meaningless names, and four meaningless smiles responded; four wet-combed heads were bowed.
And a good bit older, too, if you must know it, though of course she did not look so with her almost too blonde hair coiffed elaborately under the wicked wings of her impertinent toque and her pleasure-loving chin nestled in her white furs.
One declared that the first men were undoubtedly brunette, and that the blonde was an abnormality and rapidly becoming extinct. Another was equally sure that the pure white blonde was a special creation but little lower than the angels, and that all the dark races were so colored by their sins. This is a matter upon which we hesitate to speculate.
She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. "The Beachcombers." Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of the North, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde head jewelled with frost mocking valour and hardihood!
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