She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "I'll run and bring him back. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped.
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