A small oval mirror, fixed against the wall before him, had shown her image.

How much had it betrayed, she wondered, of her guiltily stealthy pace?
She went to him and found that he was leisurely and openly examining her in the glass, as she approached, his chin resting on one hand, his thin face perfectly calm, his eyes hazy with content.

It was a habit of his to regard her like a picture, but she had never become used to it; she was always disconcerted by it, as she was at this moment.
He rose, of course, when she was beside him, and asked her to sit down.
"But I've hardly touched a card," she said.

"This isn't very professional, you know, wasting a whole evening." She was astonished to see him flush to the roots of his hair.

His voice shook.