He was sitting in a corner against the wall, and had in his hands a copy
of the _Sphere_, which was so large when held high and wide open that the
reader could hide behind it. He had been in his corner for fifteen or
twenty minutes when Annesley Grayle arrived, glancing over the top of his
paper with a sort of jaunty carelessness every few minutes at the crowd
moving toward the restaurant, picking out some individual, then dropping
his eyes to the _Sphere_.
For the girl in gray he had a long, appraising look, studying her every
point; but he did the thing so well that, even had she turned her head
his way, she need not have been embarrassed. All she would have seen was
a man's forehead and a rim of smooth black hair showing over the top of
an illustrated paper.
What he saw was a clear profile with a delicate nose slightly tilting
upward in a proud rather than impertinent way; an arch of eyebrow
daintily sketched; a large eye which might be gray or violet; a drooping
mouth with a short upper lip; a really charming chin, and a long white
throat; skin softly pale, like white velvet; thick, ash-blond hair parted
in the middle and worn Madonna fashion--there seemed to be a lot of it in
the coil at the nape of her neck.
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