José smiled to himself and picked up the cards. The game went on.
Seagreave, receiving no encouragement from Pearl, made no attempt at
conversation, until at last, stirred by some impulse of curiosity, she
lifted her eyes. It was this question of age she wished to decide. In
that first, quick glance of hers she had taken it for granted that he
was twenty, but in a second stolen look she had noted certain lines
about the mouth and eyes which added years to his blonde youthfulness.
Then her quick ear had caught José's "Saint Harry," and to her, who knew
many men, those lines about mouth and eyes did not suggest a past of
saintship.

Her surreptitious glance encountered that of Seagreave, for he, too, had
withdrawn his eyes from the fire for a moment to let his puzzled gaze
rest upon her. He had known vaguely that Gallito had a daughter, and he
remembered in the same indefinite way that some one had told him that
she was an actress, but, even so, he could not reconcile this--his mind
sought a simile to express her--this exotic, with Gallito, these two
mountain women, a mountain cabin, and an equally unpretentious home in
the desert. She lay listlessly in her chair, a long and slender shape in
a dull black gown which fell about her in those statuesque folds which
all drapery assumed immediately she donned it; beneath it showed her
feet in black satin slippers and the gleam of the satin seemed repeated
in her blue-black hair. Her cheek was unwontedly pale. A monotone she
appeared, half-within and half-without the zone of the firelight; but
the individuality of her could not be thus subdued. It found expression
in the concentration of light and color focused in the splendid rings
which sparkled on the long, brown fingers of both her hands.

Her narrow eyes met his sombrously. On either side it was a glance of
curiosity, of scrutiny. She, as usual, made no effort to begin a