le half-pagan
or divine in any degree. He wouldn't have noticed her, even, unless
his attention had been pointedly called that way. And if another,
contemplating her with an eye not greedy of the flesh alone, had
finally hit upon the word poignant to describe the hungry youth of her,
the odd little tilt of her head, the soft and eager promise in swelling
line of hip and breast, Denby himself most certainly would have
murmured absently:

"Poignant. Yes--yes, poignant. Quite so--quite so!"

And yawned.

For she did not challenge instantly, as did Felicity. A man might look
at her a long time before her perfection smote him. It usually
happened that way; it happened exactly like that to Perry Blair. He
looked at her many, many times before he saw with seeing eyes and
realized how shyly precious and flagrantly bold girlhood like hers
could be.

Her smile was not as ready as that of the girl who danced. And it had
become a little strained, a little edged, before the end. But it never
lost its freshness. It was always as shining as fine rain at dawn.
And the inquiry in her eyes was not part calculation. They were more
wistful, less expectant maybe. But they were steady. And gray as a
November sea.

Once, remarking the incongruity of their names, Cecille repeated her
own with a shade of scorn and provoked from her companion one of the
few personalities in which she ever indulged.

"Cecille Manners!" she drawled. "Cecille Manners--gown-fitter's
assistant! With a name like that I should be in a Broadway chorus."

It happened late one evening. Cecille was half undressed for bed. And
Felicity, busy at the mirror, turned an instant to follow with a
dispassionate eye the slight, knickered figure crossing the room.

"With a figure like that, you mean," she amended. "It's plain stingy
to keep it under cover. Think of the thousands who are panting to pass
over three-fifty per, just to sit out front and give it the up and
down!"

Nor did the girl at the mirror see the raw flush which her cool comment
brought to Cecille's face, nor would she have understood it had she
seen. That one's privacy, one's physical fastidiousness, could be
affronted by mere words, would have astounded her. Fastidiousness
carried that far--fastidiousness of any sort--was incomprehensible to
Felicity. But she found the topic momentarily of interest.

"It is kind of stagy," she pursued it. "Your own?"

"Naturally."

Cecille'