It had simple curtains,
white sheets, and a warm carpet on the floor; and yet with something,
too, that struck the note of a life outside. A pennant of many colours
hung where two soft pink curtains joined, and at the window and over the
door was an ancient cross in bronze and gold. It was not the simple
Christian cross of the modern world, but an ancient one which had become
a symbol of the Romanys, a sign to mark the highways, the guide of the
wayfarers. The pennant had been on the pole of the Ry's tent in far-off
days in the Roumelian country. In the girl herself there was that which
corresponded to the gorgeous pennant and the bronze cross. It was not in
dress or in manner, for there was no sign of garishness, of the unusual
anywhere--in manner she was as well controlled as any woman of fashion,
in dress singularly reserved--but in the depths of the eyes there was
some restless, unsettled thing, some flicker of strange banners akin to
the pennant at the joining of the pink curtains. There had been something
of the same look in Ingolby's eyes in the past, only with him it was the
sense of great adventure, intrepid enterprise, a touch of vision and the
beckoning thing. That look was not in his eyes now. Nothing was there; no
life, no soul; only darkness.
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