He lit a cigarette and waited. It was quite a long time before the door opened and a woman came quickly into the room. And she was lovely. She had a mass of black hair swept clear of the brow. Her eyes were black, large and luminous. She was unnaturally white but her lips were scarlet. It was a beautiful mouth, shapely, sensuous, sensitive, but with a hint of strength. Her brows very straight and as thin almost as pencil lines. She wore a flame-coloured evening dress—'Tout feu' as a ladies' journal would describe it—and a cloak of smoke colour which fell from one shoulder and double draped the other. There was nothing ordinary in the appearance of Auriole Craven. She attacked the eye and held it captive. A woman would have declared her to be overdressed—outre—almost demi mondaine—would have denounced the white face and the red curled lips—would have criticised the uncanny knack of falling instantaneously into attitudes of flowing lines. But to a man the subject of these criticisms was matter for appreciation. By her very daring she stirred a spirit of adventure. Richard checked a gasp of admiration—of surprise—rose to his feet and bowed, but other than by settling her eyes upon him the girl gave no sign of recognition. Clearly it was up to someone to make a move, wherefore Richard politely offered her "good evening."
"Is that all you have to say?" came the answer.
"Of course not," he laughed, "but I make a point of saying that first.
Do sit down, won't you?"
She occupied the offered chair and looked up at him.
"At least I thought you'd be surprised," she said. "Still it doesn't matter."
"P'raps I am," he admitted reluctantly, "but my surprise was drowned in a very natural pleasure."
"Pleasure?"
"It was awfully nice of you to look in like this. Been to a theatre or something?"
"No."
"No?"