A waiting mood came on him while he watched, as one waits through a
great symphony and endures the monotonous passages for the sake of the
singing bursts of harmony to which the commoner parts are a necessary
background. He began to wish that she would turn her head so that he
could see her eyes. They were like the inspired part of that same
symphony, a beauty which could not be remembered and was always new,
satisfying. He could make her turn by speaking, and knowing that this
was so, he postponed the pleasure like a miser who will only count his
gold once a day.
From the side view he dwelt on the short, delicately carved upper lip
and the astonishingly pleasant curve of the cheek.
"Look at me," he said abruptly.
She turned, observed him calmly, and then glanced back to the fire. She
asked no question.
Her chin rested on her hands, now, so that when she spoke her head
nodded a little and gave a significance to what she said.
"The grey doesn't belong to you?"
So she was thinking of horses!
"Well," she repeated.
"No."
"Hoss-lifting," she mused.
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