the others were wholly occupied in testing the limits of the flexibility of the soapstone.
Not for any consideration in this world could I have restrained the irresistible desire to say the words, looking at her sitting sideways to me, noting that shining weight of hair lying on the white neck, and that curious masculine shade upon the upper lip. A faint liquid smile came to her face.
"Mine is not so long as that when you see it undone," she said, looking at me.
"How long is it?" I asked mechanically, turning over the leaves of the sketch-book, and thinking in a crazy sort of way what I would not give to see her with that hair unloosed, and have the right to lift a single strand of it.
"It would not touch the ground," she answered, "it must be about eight inches off it, I think."
"A marvellous length for a European," I answered in a conventional tone, though it was a difficulty to summon it.
Within my brain all the dizzy thoughts seemed reeling together till they left me hardly conscious of anything but an acute painful sense of her proximity.
"Find me the head of a Persian, will you?" came her voice next.
"A Persian?" I repeated mechanically.
Theodora looked at me wonderingly and I recalled myself.
"Oh, yes," I answered, "I'll find you one. Give me the book."
I took the book and turned over the leaves towards the end. As I did so, some of the intermediate pages caught her eye, and she tried to arrest the turning leaves.
"What is that? Let me see."
"It is nothing," I said, passing them over. "Allow me to find you the one you want."
