Conversation was not animated; and while she listened with a smile to dreary anecdotes of the War Between the States, she allowed her gaze to wander slowly down the table to where Alice Rokeby sat, with her large soft eyes, so vague and wistful, asking of life, “Why have you passed me by?” Now and then these eyes, which reminded Corinna of the eyes in a dream, would turn timidly to John Benham, and then there would steal into them that strange look of hunger, of desperation.  What did it mean?  Corinna wondered.  Surely there was no truth in the old gossip that she had heard long ago and forgotten?

John Benham had put a question to the Governor across the table; and he sat now, leaning a little forward, while he waited for an answer.  The light from the tall white candles, in branched candelabra of the Queen Anne pattern, fell directly on his handsome austere face, so full of delicate reserves and fine intentions; and all the disturbing questions fled from Corinna’s mind while she looked at him.  Surely, she repeated to herself, with a triumphant emphasis, surely there was no truth in that old ugly gossip!  The backward sweep of his iron-gray hair accentuated the height of his forehead, and produced at first sight an impression of intellectual superiority.  His nose was long and slightly aquiline; his mouth firm and clear-cut, with thin lips that closed tightly; his chin jutted a little forward, giving a hatchet-like severity to his profile.  It was the face of a fair fighter, of a man who could be trusted absolutely beyond personal limitations, of a man who would always keep the vision of the end through any enterprise, who would always put the curb of expediency on emotional impulses, who would invariably judge a theory not by its underlying principle, but by its practical application.  A charming face, too, complex and imaginative, a face which made the rugged and open countenance of the Governor appear primitive and undeveloped.  Corinna admired Benham; she respected him; she liked—­was it even possible, she asked herself, that she loved him?  Yet here again she was conscious of that baffled feeling of inadequacy, of something wanting, as if an essential faculty of soul had been either left out by Nature, or refined away by the subtle impersonal processes of his mind.

Clearly there had been an error of judgment in placing him beside Mrs. Stribling.  His taste was too fastidious to respond to her palpable allurements.  She would have had a better chance with Vetch, for the flippant pleasantry with which Benham responded to the beaming enchantress was clothed in the very tone and look he had used with Patty Vetch in the drawing-room.  Yes, it was futile to stray too far from one’s type.  Rose Stribling had failed to interest Benham, mused Corinna, for the same reason that she herself had been unable to arouse the admiration of Gideon Vetch.  The lesson it taught, she repeated cynically, was simply that it was futile to stray too far from one’s type.  Vetch had talked to her as he might have talked to her father or to the husky warrior on her right; but he had never once looked at her.  His attention would be arrested by large, sudden, bright things like the rosy curve of Mrs. Stribling’s shoulders or the shining ropes of her hair.