THE EVIL THAT MEN DO—
It was the most beautiful handbag, silver-grey, with the delicate bloom on it of perfect suède—darker when one stroked it one way, lighter the other. The clasp was real gold and the straps by which one carried it of exactly the right length. Inside it had three divisions; drawing out the pads of tissue paper one revealed a lining of ivory moiré, down which the light shot into the shadows of the sumptuously scented interior in little trickles like water. Among the silk folds of the centre compartment were a purse with a gold clasp, a gold case that might be used for either cigarettes or visiting cards, and a darling little gold-backed mirror. There was a memorandum-tablet in an outer pocket, and a little book of papier poudré.
They sat down on the sofa to examine it, their heads close together.
"Oh," she cried, "you don't mind, Harold? Papier poudré?"
"Not," said Harold, "if you don't put on too much."
"And look—the little wee mirror. Doesn't it make me have a little wee face?"
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