She stood up and looked him in the eyes steadily.
He looked at her steadily too, and so they stood; brown eyes gazing into grey. He wondered greatly at the singular clearness of hers, big, and of a marvellous shade of dark brown, the white absolutely clear; the colour like some beautifully tinted crystal. He noticed eyes, and he gazed into hers for some time, dispassionately, as something inanimate, noting their marvellous perfection.
He smiled with pleasure, and instantly noted a gleam of pleasure in her eyes also. Then he shifted his gaze and took in a general impression of the face. It was remarkably beautiful, every feature was even and in perfect harmony. The eyebrows were delicately pencilled lines of deepest black. The eyelashes unusually long, they drooped downwards, and as he looked at her, the whole head took a gentle bend downwards in natural and graceful modesty before the open admiration in his eyes.
"You won't find much there. Come over here," he said. He led the way to the coal heap. She followed in silence.
"Help yourself," he said grandly, with a wave of the arm, giving away what didn't belong to him. As a general rule he was consistently conscientious in these details, but under the influence of those eyes he cast honesty to the four winds of heaven.
"Thank you, sir," she said, and stooped to fill her basket.
The graceful movements and even poise of her figure appealed to him immensely. He was somewhat of an athlete, and he noted with pleasure the firm fulness of the arms (which were bare to the elbow), and the throat and neck (which were quite unprotected). Her jet black hair hung down below her waist in heavy, wavy tresses. Her short black skirt (faded to almost a light green) showed a neat ankle and fair proportion of shapely leg. He stood back and watched her closely. The skin, where it was visible about the face and throat, was rather dark, probably dirty, he thought, yet it did not seem offensive, though he was usually fastidious in such things. He took life very seriously did this young man, very seriously indeed; he was bent on making his fortune, his fortune and a name—nothing less. He was nineteen; older than his years in many things, younger in a lot.
The gipsy girl stood up. "Thank you, sir," she said again, and moved haltingly towards the gate, glancing up at him with her big brown eyes and dropping them again as she caught his.
"Don't go!" he said, stepping forward. "Put that basket down and come in and have a look at the engines. Have you ever seen a dynamo? An electric machine, you know. Thing that makes the light for those big lamps in the street."
"I've seen them at the shows."