thought of hers? Well, they were honest eyes, he concluded, and in them
was neither smallness nor meanness. The brown sunburn of his face
surprised him. He had not dreamed he was so black. He rolled up his
shirt-sleeve and compared the white underside if the arm with his face.
Yes, he was a white man, after all. But the arms were sunburned, too. He
twisted his arm, rolled the biceps over with his other hand, and gazed
underneath where he was least touched by the sun. It was very white. He
laughed at his bronzed face in the glass at the thought that it was once
as white as the underside of his arm; nor did he dream that in the world
there were few pale spirits of women who could boast fairer or smoother
skins than he--fairer than where he had escaped the ravages of the sun.

His might have been a cherub's mouth, had not the full, sensuous lips a
trick, under stress, of drawing firmly across the teeth. At times, so
tightly did they draw, the mouth became stern and harsh, even ascetic.
They were the lips of a fighter and of a lover. They could taste the
sweetness of life with relish, and they could put the sweetness aside and
command life. The chin and jaw, strong and just hinting of square
aggressiveness, helped the lips to command life. Strength balanced
sensuousness and had upon it a tonic effect, compelling him to love
beauty that was healthy and making him vibrate to sensations that were
wholesome. And between the lips were teeth that had never known nor
needed the dentist's care. They were white and strong and regular, he
decided, as he looked at them. But as he looked, he began to be
troubled. Somewhere, stored away in the recesses of his mind and vaguely
remembered, was the impression that there were people who washed their
teeth every day. They were the people from up above--people in her
class. She must wash her teeth every day, too. What would she think if
she learned that he had never washed his teeth in all the days of his
life? He resolved to get a tooth-brush and form the habit. He would