The proud cutting of the nose and mouth gave delight; it was a pride so unconscious, so masked in sweetness, that it challenged without wounding.

The short upper lip was sensitive and gay; the eyes ranged in a smiling freedom; the neck and arms were beautiful.

Her dress, according to the Whistlerian phrase just coming into vogue, might have been called an 'arrangement in white.' The basis of it seemed to be white velvet; and breast and hair were powdered with diamonds delicately set in old flower-like shapes.
'You are in the same house with Mr.Cuningham ?' she asked, when a dean had said grace and the soup was served.

Her voice was soft and courteous; the irritation in Fenwick felt the soothing of it.
'I am on the floor above.' 'He paints charming things.' Fenwick hesitated.
'You think so ?' he said, bluntly, turning to look at her.
She coloured slightly and laughed.
'Do you mean to put me in the Palace of Truth ?' 'Of course I would if I could,' said Fenwick, also laughing.

'But I suppose ladies never say quite what they mean.' 'Oh yes, they do.