She rose without replying, and walked to an antique mirror which covered a corner of the room. She faced it with a sigh of satisfaction, and then turned slowly round upon her toes till her shoulders were reflected. Her head was flung back out of the lamp light which yellowed her breast, and the gold of her coiled hair floated over her in the darkness like a misty moon.
She stood, poised doubtfully for some time, pinching her little waist downward with both hands.
“Do you think it shows too much?” she inquired, presently, without moving.
South looked up from the table.
“For what?” he said.
“For what do you mean?”
“For my taste, or for yours, or for Veynes’, or for modesty—or what?”
“For yours, if you like.”
“For mine, yes! I don’t mean that I see too much of you, but it’s so tremendously announced; it’s squeezed into one’s eye.”