She came forward with a coquettish little laugh and placed herself
beneath the gas, inviting his inspection, sure of herself, confident
in her dressmaker.

She was small and very upright, with a peculiarly confident carriage
of the head, which might indicate determination or, possibly, a mere
resolution to get her money's worth. Her hair, perfectly dressed,
was of the colour of a slow-worm. She called it fair. Her enemies
said it reminded them of snakes. Her eyes were of a darker shade of
ashen grey, verging on hazel. Her mouth was mobile, with thin lips
and an expressive corner--the left-hand corner--and at this moment
it suggested pert inquiry. Some people thought she had an
expressive face, but then some people are singularly superficial in
their mode of observation. There was really no power of expressing
any feeling in the small, delicately cut face. It all lay in the
mouth, in the left-hand corner thereof.

"Well?" she said, and Luke's wonder gradually faded into admiration.

"I give it up," he answered.

She shrugged her shoulders in pretended disgust.

"You are not polite," she said, with a glance at his stalwart person
which might have indicated that there were atoning merits. "I must
say you are not polite, Luke. I do not think I will tell you. It
would be still more humiliating to learn that you have forgotten my
existence."