’ ‘That is what you think? Let us try!’ ‘Don’t be idiotic!’ She was backing from him, reaching through one of the slits she had carefully manufactured in her petticoat. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. Dieu du ciel, but where was Gerald? On the move again, she found herself standing before one of the mirrors, gazing into her own countenance without seeing it. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture.
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