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which he stroked his small moustache was finely finished too, but sinewy and not effeminate. She had always associated finish and refinement entirely with her own sex, but she began to think they might be even more agreeable in a man. Marvell’s eyes were grey, like her own, with chestnut eyebrows and darker lashes; and his skin was as clear as a woman’s, but pleasantly reddish, like his hands.
    As he sat talking in a low tone, questioning her about the music, asking her what she had been doing since he had last seen her, she was aware that he looked at her less than usual, and she also glanced away; but when she turned her eyes suddenly they always met his gaze.
    His talk remained impersonal. She was a little disappointed that he did not compliment her on her dress or her hair – Undine was accustomed to hearing a great deal about her hair, and the episode of the spangles had opened the way to a graceful allusion – but the instinct of sex told her that, under his quiet words, he was throbbing with the sense of her proximity. And his self-restraint sobered her, made her refrain from the flashing and fidgeting which were the only way she knew of taking part in the immemorial love-dance. She talked simply and frankly of herself, of her parents, of howfew people they knew in New York, and of how, at times, she was almost sorry she had persuaded them to give up Apex.
    ‘You see, they did it entirely on my account; they’re awfully lonesome here; and I don’t believe I shall ever learn New York ways either,’ she confessed, turning on him the eyes of youth and truthfulness. ‘Of course I know a few people; but they’re not – not the way I expected New York people to be.’ She risked what seemed an involuntary glance at Mabel. ‘I’ve seen girls here tonight that I just
long
to know – they look so lovely and refined – but I don’t suppose I ever shall. New York’s not very friendly to strange girls, is it? I suppose you’ve got so many of your own already – and they’re all so fascinating you don’t care!’ As she spoke she let her eyes rest on his, half-laughing, half-wistful, and then dropped her lashes while the pink stole slowly up to them.
    When he left her he asked if he might hope to find her at home the next day.
    The night was fine, and Marvell, having put his cousin into her motor, started to walk home to Washington Square. At the corner he was joined by Mr Popple.
    ‘Hallo, Ralph, old man – did you run across our auburn beauty of the Stentorian? Who’d have thought old Harry Lipscomb’d have put us on to anything as good as that? Peter Van Degen was fairly taken off his feet – pulled me out of Mrs Monty Thurber’s box and dragged me ’round by the collar to introduce him. Planning a dinner at Martin’s already. Gad, young Peter must have what he wants
when
he wants it! I put in a word for you – told him you and I ought to be let in on the ground floor. Funny the luck some girls have about getting started. I believe this one’ll take if she can manage to shake the Lipscombs. I think I’ll ask to paint her; might be a good thing for the spring show. She’d show up splendidly as a
pendant
to my Mrs Van Degen – Blonde and Brunette … Night and Morning … Of course I prefer Mrs Van Degen’s type – Personally, I
must
have breeding – but as a mere bit of flesh and blood … hallo, ain’t you coming into the club?’
    Marvell was not coming into the club, and he drew a long breath of relief as his companion left him.
    Was it possible that he had ever thought leniently of the egregious Popple? The tone of social omniscience which he had once found so comic was now as offensive to him as a coarse physical touch. And the worst of it was that Popple, with the slight exaggeration of a caricature, really expressed the ideals of the world he frequented. As he spoke of Miss Spragg, so others at any rate would think of her: almost every one in Ralph’s set would agree that it