Rust could not recall that he had ever seen shoulders more superb, nor a throat more delightfully round and built upward in curves to the perfect chin at the top. In contrast with her lustrously dark eyes and her almost black eyebrows, spanning her forehead with their dainty arches, her old-gold hair was an amazing crown of loveliness.
She had led him away from the company, “to look for Ted,” with an art which had for once deceived the crafty rover completely. Now, as he looked upon her, assuming a coldness it was utterly impossible to feel, and be a man, he noted a beauty in her bare arms which made him think of the perfect lines of a tiger’s paw. He could have suggested nothing to make them more splendid.
Indeed she was well-nigh matchless as a creation of nature and polite society. Her shimmering satin gown clung to her form as if ardently. Her pretty gold-slippered feet and her slender ankles, in red silk, open-work stockings, defied a glance to ignore them.
“Adam,” she said, smiling up at him archly, “I wish you were a girl—just for a few moments, you know.”
“You would suffer by the contrast between us,” said Rust.
“You would know what a—what a bore he is,” she went on, regardless of his comment. “And it would serve you right.”
“You doubtless mean the King,” he replied. “Your expedients are cruel. Make anything out of me—a camel, if you like,—but not a girl.”
“I mean Ted,” she said, a little desperately. “You know I mean Ted. You know what a bore he is.”
“Then you have spoiled him since morning.”
“You have no right to be the only man who isn’t a bore,” she went on.