She wore a much wider mask than the others, so that nothing but her mouth and chin was shown. But that mouth was so tempting, with its ravishing, floating smile, and that smile so concentrated in its limitation to a single feature, that it turned his head. The lips were narrow and bright; the blood seemed about to ooze through the skin. The upper one was curved in a tantalizing bow between the drops of soft shadow at the corners. The cleft above seemed to draw her lip a little upward to disclose a line of small, perfect, regular teeth of a delicate, bluish white translucence, which, parting, showed a narrow rosy tongue. The lower lip was that delicious fraction of an inch lesser than the upper one which, in profile, gave her a touch of youthful, almost boyish, wistfulness. Her round, firm chin showed, from the same point of view, a classic right angle to her throat, where the line swept down the proud column of her neck, there to swing tenderly outward toward her breast.
He could not take his eyes from her, but he had not the will to restrain his staring. The spell was irresistible; he drank her deep and could not get enough. For these whirling moments he was at the mercy of the attraction of sex, impersonal, yet distilled to an intoxicating essence. Had it not been for her mask hiding the upper part of her face, had her eyes corrected this almost wanton loveliness with some reserve or with the effect of a more intellectual character, had his glance even been given a chance to wander over equally enchanting components of that expression, he undoubtedly would not have been so moved by the sight of her laughing, tempting mouth. But that, faultlessly formed, exquisitely sexed, whimsically provocative, had for him, with the rest of her face hidden, an original and freshly flavored delight. In the spectrum of her beauty the violets and blues of her spirit, the greens and orange of her mind were for the nonce inhibited; only the vibrant red rays of her physical personality smote him, burning him with their radiance. But there was, he felt, no malice behind that smile, though it was mischievous; there was nothing wanton there, though in this guise her lips seemed abandoned and inviting. There was, in their flexed contour, in the engaging mobility of their poise, no consciousness of anything sensually appealing. It was, rather, as if he gained some secret aspect of the woman beneath and behind all conventions of morality, of modesty, and of discretion. So far, indeed, she seemed, in a way, without a personality. She was Woman smiling at him. The vision was too much for him.
She bent toward him and her lips whispered:
"How do you do, Mr. Granthope? Why are you staring so? I thought of course you knew me—but I really believe you don't."
Even then he did not recognize her, and was profoundly embarrassed. That he should fail to remember such a mouth as that! He took her hand which had been concealed in her long sleeve and looked at it. She had glued long false nails of celluloid to her little fingers, completing the picture of a Chinese lady of quality. At the first sight of her palm, at the first touch of it, even, he knew her, and, with a rush, a dozen thoughts bewildered him. This was she whom he had been able so to influence, to cajole. He had, in a way, a claim to this comeliness. She had favored him, had confessed her interest in him. They were, besides, bound by a secret tie. He might hope for more of her, perhaps. She was already somewhat in his power; he had, at least, the capacity to sway her. She, alluring, delightful, might perhaps be gained, and in some way, won. She had known him at a glance—there was her prescience again! She had welcomed him, in assurance of her favor. What then was possible? What dared he not hope for? A great wave of desire overcame him.
Meanwhile he answered, distracted and unready:
"You knew me then? I thought I was pretty well disguised."
"Oh, you've forgotten how hard it is to deceive me. I should never try it, if I were you. Of course I knew you! I should know you if you had covered your head in a sack."
He stammered, and he was not often confused enough to stammer. "I don't know how to tell you how beautiful you are, Miss Payson."
She spoke low and slowly, with a wayward inflection, "Oh, I'm so sorry." Then she added, "I scarcely dared speak to you, you are so magnificent."