She was very beautiful, she was very desirable.

She had been in his mind for months,--this fine, strong, thoroughbred daughter of a thoroughbred gentleman.

His sleeves were rolled up, his throat was bare; his strong, deeply lined face was as brown as a berry; if anything, his cold grey eyes were harder and more penetrating than in the days when they looked out from a whiter countenance.

He was a strong, dominant figure despite, the estate to which he had fallen,--a silent, sinister figure that might well have been described as "The Thinker." For he was always thinking.
"I understand you tackled the 'boss' this morning, Ruth," he said as she came up.
"I daresay the news is all over the island by this time," she replied, still angry.
"Was it worth while ?" he inquired, a trace of derision in his voice.
She was on the point of replying rather emphatically in the negative, when suddenly she recalled the look in Percival's eyes and the first words he spoke to her.

She caught her breath.