There was nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.
Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords.
She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to know and measure its emotion.

At times she turned her head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing.

There was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes.

Had Maurice been there he would have seen it.

Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms.