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
proximity. And his self-restraint sobered her, made her refrain from the
flashing and fidgeting which were the only way she knew of taking part
in the immemorial love-dance. She talked simply and frankly of herself,
of her parents, of how few people they knew in New York, and of how, at
times, she was almost sorry she had persuaded them to give up Apex.
"You see, they did it entirely on my account; they're awfully lonesome
here; and I don't believe I shall ever learn New York ways either," she
confessed, turning on him the eyes of youth and truthfulness. "Of course
I know a few people; but they're not--not the way I expected New York
people to be.
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