He knew not which would be heard first—a ring at the gate-bell, or the rustling of silk upon the stairway.
He desired the latter, as he had not yet completed the promised instructions.
He had not much more to say, and a moment would suffice:
He was not disappointed: Fan came first. She came sweeping downstairs, snowy with Spanish chalk, and radiant with rouge.
Without these she was beautiful, with them superb.
Long usage had made them almost a necessity to her skin; but the same had taught her skill in their limning. Only a connoisseur could have distinguished the paint upon her cheeks from the real and natural colour.
“You’ll do,” said Swinton, as he scanned her with an approving glance.
“For, what, pray?” was the interrogatory.
It was superfluous. She more than conjectured his meaning.
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”