She nodded at the glass he was holding and Simon moved across the room and gave her the drink. Then he knew that he had been right. His fingers touched hers, and what he felt was proof enough. Her hand was firm and yet soft, the skin like satin.
She had done a beautiful job of make-up. The Saint could appreciate it. Quite frankly, he stared. And through the muddy blotched surface and cunningly drawn wrinkles her real face began to come into view, the clear, clean sculpture that even disfiguring rolls of wax padding in mouth and nostrils could not entirely hide.
She looked away.
The Saint did not. Presently he murmured,
“Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth—”
She opened her mouth to speak, but Simon Templar’s low voice went on,
“Suffer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.”