deeply inhaled the smoke; then returned to a mirror.

Fascinated, Sidsall followed every motion.

Taou Yuen polished her face sharply with a hot damp cloth and then dipped
her fingers in a jar that held a sticky amber substance. "Honey," she
said briefly, rubbing it into her cheeks and palms. Next she attacked her
eyebrows, and skillfully wielding a thin silk cord left arches like
pencil markings. At times she interrupted her preparations to turn to
Sidsall with a little smile so engaging that the girl smiled
sympathetically in answer. There were a gilt paper box of rice powder,
with which she drenched her countenance, leaves of carmine transferred to
her cheeks with a wet finger, and a silver pot of rouge from which she
coated her lips. As she gazed approvingly at her reflection Sidsall said:

"It's very beautiful."

Her eyes, drawn up toward her temples, shone gayly; and, close to
Sidsall, she touched the latter affectionately on the cheek. The cold
sharp contact of the long curving finger guard gave the girl an
unpleasant shock. It seemed lifeless, or like the scratching of a beetle.
Suddenly the woman's glittering gaze, her expressionless face stiff with
paint, the blaze of her barbaric colors, filled Sidsall with a shrinking
that was almost dread.

She was even more oppressed by an instinctive feeling of what she could
express to herself only as cruelty hidden under the other's scented
embroidery. At the same time her curiosity persisted, conquered. She was
unable, however, to think of any possible manner of introducing the new
subject of her interest, love, and was forced to be content with an