rate altar, laid with rose-jade cists for cosmetics and crystal vials of French holy waters, blessed by Houbigant and Coty. She combed out her short hair until it bristled on either side of her face. Now she rubbed cold cream into her flesh, wiping away the discarded artificial complexion with a towel. Then she carefully made up again, applying fresh carmine to her lips, new rouge to her cheeks, and outlining her eyelids with a blue pencil. This was her invariable custom before retiring, and she often said to herself that she looked at least as well in bed as she did at the opera. Presently, still sitting before her dressing-table, she lighted a cigarette and began to reflect, one knee resting lightly on the other, swinging her leg backwards and forwards, from the foot of which a satin mule, the toe sparkling with an infinity of tiny mirrors, depended.
John Armstrong: she really never could accustom herself to men who smoked cigars. The manly American. Why, she wondered, was it deemed manly in America to drink coffee and effeminate to drink tea? . . . . A strangely reluctant boy, Harold. It would be interesting to know why he was so reluctant. She hoped, however, that he always would be. In his reluctance lay his claim to charm. . . . Lucky Paul! And lucky Bunny! Would he ever write fine music? she asked herself. Could a woman help him do this? Could this woman? A fine animal. The finest animal she had ever seen. Delicate and exquisite, and yet like an
