Some intuition had already told her that frankness was the tone to take
with him. They sat down together on the red damask sofa, against the
hanging cloaks. As Undine leaned back her hair caught in the spangles of
the wrap behind her, and she had to sit motionless while the young man
freed the captive mesh. Then they settled themselves again, laughing a
little at the incident.

A glance had made the situation clear to Mrs. Lipscomb, and they saw her
return to her rapt inspection of the boxes. In their mirror-hung recess
the light was subdued to a rosy dimness and the hum of the audience came
to them through half-drawn silken curtains. Undine noticed the delicacy
and finish of her companion's features as his head detached itself
against the red silk walls. The hand with 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