A pretty picture was Shirley in these intervals: one hand raised to her cheek, bright from the sting of the spring wind in the hills.

Her forearm, white and firm and strong, was circled by a band of Roman gold, the only ornament she wore, and when she lifted her hand with its quick deft gesture, the trinket flashed away from her wrist and clasped the warm flesh as though in joy of the closer intimacy.

Her hair was swept up high from her brow; her nose, straight, like her father's, was saved from arrogance by a sensitive mouth, all eloquent of kindness and wholesome mirth--but we take unfair advantage! A girl dining in candle-light with only her dreams for company should be safe from impertinent eyes.
She had kept Dick's letter till the last.

He wrote often and in the key of his talk.

She dropped a lump of sugar into her coffee-cup and read his hurried scrawl: "What do you think has happened now?
I have fourteen dollars' worth of telegrams from Sanderson--wiring from some God-forsaken hole in Montana, that it's all rot about Armitage being that fake Baron von Kissel.