Her little white shoes were thrust out straight before her, heels together, pointing to the sky, and she leaned forward looking over them across the bay.
At Caragh's words she turned her face towards him, with the vague depths of some conjecture in her eyes, as though disposed to ask him how, if not as an angel, he had ever thought of her. But she turned her eyes again, without speaking, to the topaz hills beyond the bay.
Maurice lay a moment looking at her silent profile, then, standing in front of her, he spread out the wide white skirt fan-wise on either side of her feet.
"Now you're perfectly symmetrical," he said, contemplating her from above.
She lifted her eyes to his from the distant hills with a smile.
"It would make a charming thing in marble," he continued; "almost Egyptian and yet so immensely modern. Only some fool of a critic would be certain to ask what it meant."
"And what would you say?"
He gave the statue a moment's further consideration.
"Well, that it wasn't meant for him, anyway," he replied, dropping down again beside her.
"Could you tell him what it meant for you?" she enquired, without moving.