The boyish note predominated as he talked while he drew, his eyes now smiling, now seriously intent on the sketch which was developing so swiftly under his facile pencil.
Marion's clean-cut blond head was close to his, her supple body twisted in her seat, one bare arm hanging over the back of the chair.

Something in her attitude seemed to exclude intrusion; her voice, too, was hushed in comment, though his was pitched in his naturally agreeable key.
Sylvia had taken a hesitating step toward them, but halted, turning irresolutely; and suddenly over her crept a sensation of isolation--something of that feeling which had roused her at midnight from her bed and driven her to Grace Ferrall for a refuge from she knew not what.
The rustle of her silken dinner gown was scarcely perceptible as she turned.

Siward, moving his head slightly, glanced up, then brought his sketch to a brilliant finish.
"Don't you think something of this sort is practicable ?" he asked pleasantly, including Mrs.Ferrall and Katharyn Tassel in a general appeal which brought them into the circle of two.

Grace Ferrall leaned forward, looking over Marion's shoulder, and Siward rose and stepped back, with a quick glance into the hall--in time to catch a glimmer of pale blue and lace on the stairs.
"I suppose my cigarettes are in my room as usual," he said aloud to himself, wheeling so that he could not have time to see Marion's offer of her little gold-encrusted case, or notice her quickly raised eyes, bright with suspicion and vexation.

For she, too, had observed Sylvia's distant entrance, had been perfectly aware of Siward's cognizance of Sylvia's retreat; and when Siward went on sketching she had been content.