were beautiful.

And herself, her mysterious, her secret self, Charlotte Redhead. It had
been secret and mysterious to itself once, before she knew.

She didn't want to be secret and mysterious. Of all things she hated
secrecy and mystery. She would tell Gwinnie about Gibson Herbert when she
came. She would have to tell her.

Down at the end of the looking-glass picture, behind her, the bow window
and the slender back of a man standing there.

* * * * *

She had got him clear by this time. If he went to-morrow he would
stay, moving about forever in your mind. The young body, alert and
energetic; slender gestures of hands. The small imperious head carried
high. The spare, oval face with the straight-jutting, pointed chin.
Honey-white face, thin dusk and bistre of eyelids and hollow temples
and the roots of the hair. Its look of being winged, lifted up, ready
to start off on an adventure. Hair brushed back in two sleek, dark
wings. The straight slender nose, with the close upward wings of its
nostrils (it wasn't Roman after all). Under it the winged flutter of
his mouth when he smiled.

Black eyebrows almost meeting, the outer ends curling up queerly, like
little moustaches. And always the hard, blue knife-blade eyes.

She knew his name the first day. He had told her. Conway. John
Roden Conway.