Golden-brown hair, worn rather longer than fashion dictates, waved crisply over his head, and the moustache and small Vandyck beard which partially concealed the lower part of his face were of the same warmly golden colour.
The word "musician" was written all over him--in the supple, capable hands, in the careless stoop of his loosely knit shoulders, and, more than all, in the imaginative hazel eyes with their curious mixture of abstraction and fire.

They rather suggested lightning playing over some dreaming pool.
Magda shook hands with him carelessly.
"We shall have to postpone the practice as I'm so late, Davilof," she said.

"I had a smash-up in the fog.

My car ran into a bus--" "And you are hurt ?" Davilof broke in sharply, his voice edged with fear.
"No, no.

I was stunned for a minute and then afterwards I fainted, but I'm quite intact otherwise." "You are sure--sure ?" "Quite." Hearing the keen anxiety in his tone she smiled at him reassuringly and held out a friendly hand.