Geoffrey, do serve yourself, please, and--oh, my gracious!
I've forgotten to give you your tea; I'm so sorry!"
Here Spike, having once again staved off the inevitable explanation,
grew hilarious, and they laughed and talked the while they ate and drank
with youthful, healthy appetites. And what a supper that was! What
tongue could tell the gaiety and utter content that possessed them all
three? What pen describe all Hermione's glowing beauty, or how her blue
eyes, meeting eyes of grey would, for no perceptible reason, grow
sweetly troubled, waver in their glance, and veil themselves beneath
sudden, down-drooping lashes? What mere words could ever describe all
the subtle, elusive witchery of her?
And Spike--ate, of course, in a blissful silence for the most part and
whole-heartedly, his attention centred exclusively upon his plate; thus
how should he know or care how often, across that diminished turkey,
grey eyes looked into blue? As for Ravenslee, he ate and drank he knew
and cared not what, content to sit and watch her when he might--the
delicious curves of white neck and full, round throat, the easy grace of
movement that spoke her vigorous youth; joying in the soft murmurs of
her voice, the low, sweet ring of her laughter, and thrilling responsive
to her warm young womanhood.
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