So there is no use in pursuing that line of investigation any farther--is there ?" And always with her the mischief lay in the trailing upward inflection; in the confused sweetness of her eyes, and their lovely uncertainty.
One slim white hand held the rose against her cheek; the other lay idly on her knee, fresh and delicate as a fallen petal; and he laid both hands over it and lifted it between them.
"Mr.Siward, I am afraid this is becoming a habit with you." The gay mockery was not quite genuine; the curve of lips too sensitive for a voice so lightly cynical.
He smiled, bending there, considering her hand between his; and after a moment her muscles relaxed, and bare round arm and hand lay abandoned to him.
"Quite flawless--perfect," he said aloud to himself.
"Do you--read hands ?" "Vaguely." He touched the smooth palm: "Long life, clear mind, and"-- he laughed--"heart supreme over reason! There is written a white lie--but a pretty one." "It is no lie." He laughed again, unconvinced.
"It is the truth," she said, seriously insisting and bending sideways above her own hand where it lay in his.

"It is a miserable confession to admit it, but I'm afraid intelligence would fight a losing battle with heart if the conflict ever came.

You see, I know, having nobody to study except myself all these years.

...

There is the proof of it--that selfish, smooth contour, where there should be generosity.