Never before had she lingered so over a toilet, patting each lock into place, twisting her head from side to side like a peacock admiring its image.
Now she looked about hungrily for a touch of color and uttered a little moan of vexation when she saw nothing, till her eyes, piercing through the gloom of a dim corner, saw a spray of autumn leaves, long left there and still stained with beauty.

She fastened them at the breast of her shirt, and so arrayed began to cook.

Never was there a merrier cook, not even some jolly French chef with a heart made warm with good red wine, for she sang as she worked, and whenever she had to cross the room it was with a dancing step.

Spring was in her blood, warm spring that sets men smiling for no cause except that they are living, and rejoicing with the whole awakening world.
So it was with Jacqueline.

Ever and anon as she leaned over the pans and stirred the fire she raised her head and remained a moment motionless, waiting for a sound, yearning to hear, and each time she had to look down again with a sigh.
As it was, he took her by surprise, for he entered with the soft foot of the hunted and remained an instant searching the room with a careful glance.