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displayed in the dining hal and study. Tessa, who knew only enough to marvel at their worth, took pleasure in simply wandering around the house, admiring the works of art.
    Without a doubt the most striking of al the portraits was at the top of the second-floor landing, conspicuously arranged to catch the eye of everyone who traversed the staircase, entered the bal room, or visited the gal ery. Tessa was not surprised to learn that the portrait was of the master of the house, for she had heard that these creatures were exceptional y vain. She had not guessed, however, that he had so much to be vain about.
    The life-sized portrait featured a young man standing before the parklike expanse of grounds that was the east vista of the house. He was dressed in country attire: high boots, folded cravat, woolen jacket unbuttoned over his waistcoat. He leaned back with one elbow propped upon the wal , one leg slightly raised on a mounting block. He gazed at the onlooker with an arrogant, amused air, his aristocratic features managing to look at the same time both relaxed and alert, and his sharp blue eyes possessed of an oddly sardonic twinkle that was observable even through the impersonal medium of oil and canvas. His most remarkable feature was, of course, his hair: it possessed the color and satiny sheen of rich light mink, except for a swath about five inches wide that swept from the right temple back to the ends and which was the most remarkable shade of white gold. He wore his hair unfashionably long, loose about his shoulders like thick shiny satin, but this in itself did not surprise Tessa. She had heard that the hair of such creatures could not be cut. The painting looked improbable; Tessa was certain the artist had employed a certain license for the sake of romance.
    She was to learn, from servants' gossip and soon her own eyes, that the portrait did not do its subject justice.
    The most unusual aspect of the painting, however, was not the human likeness, or even the skil of the artist. It was the secondary subject with which the master had chosen to pose. It was customary among aristocrats of both England and France to have their portraits painted in the company of a beloved pet—a lapdog, a mastiff, even a cat.
    Alexander Devoncroix had chosen to pose with his hand upon the head of a shaggy brown-and-white wolf. The eyes of the wolf were blue, like his own.
    Tessa stared at that painting, feeling smal and insignificant in its shadow, until she got the chil s.
     
    She knew then for certain that she had done the right thing in coming here.
    He returned, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, to a great fanfare and jingle of horses'
    harnesses in a shiny black carriage trimmed with gold. Two buxomous, overdressed and overpainted females clung to his arms like cheap jewel ery, which Tessa did not find in the least surprising.
    What did surprise her—only a little, for she had been prepared—was what a striking figure he made.
    He was even tal er and stronger than he appeared in the portrait, his sharp features livelier, his sea blue eyes merrier. That champagne-colored hair with its blaze of gold was even more arresting in person, and he displayed it shamelessly as he walked hatless in the sun. His voice was warm and mel ifluous, which she had not expected, and his laugh loud, carefree and inviting, which also surprised her.
    No one, however, could have prepared Tessa for the inexplicable power, the almost mesmeric charm, of Alexander Devoncroix. He moved like one of the Greek athletes of old, al power and grace and fluidity of motion. Just watching him brought a clench of pleasure to the throat. When he laughed, joy resonated in al within distance of the sound; when he scowled—which he did very seldom—the sky seemed to darken. In his presence the very atmosphere of the earth was subtly charged with reverent expectancy, as though greatness were an element unto itself and he, Alexander Devoncroix, was its embodiment.