Cowperwood was interested by his standing figure--his eyes, his hair--but he was much more interested in Mrs.Sohlberg, to whom his look constantly strayed.
He watched her hands on the keys, her fingers, the dimples at her elbows.

What an adorable mouth, he thought, and what light, fluffy hair! But, more than that, there was a mood that invested it all--a bit of tinted color of the mind that reached him and made him sympathetic and even passionate toward her.

She was the kind of woman he would like.

She was somewhat like Aileen when she was six years younger (Aileen was now thirty-three, and Mrs.Sohlberg twenty-seven), only Aileen had always been more robust, more vigorous, less nebulous.

Mrs.
Sohlberg (he finally thought it out for himself) was like the rich tinted interior of a South Sea oyster-shell--warm, colorful, delicate.
But there was something firm there, too.