It's as interesting as a satire, I tell you.

Look at that perfectly good mouth and its delicate sensitive decision with a hint of puritanical primness in the upper lip--and the full, sensuous under lip mocking the upper and giving the lie to the child's eyes which are still wide with the wonder of men and things.

And there's something of an adolescent's mystery in the eyes, too--a hint of languor where the bloom of the cheek touches the lower lid--and those smooth, cool, little hands, scarcely seen in the shadow--did you ever see more purity and innocence--more character and the lack of it--painted into a pair of hands since Van Dyck and Whistler died ?" Neville, astonished, stood looking incredulously at the canvas around which the others had gathered.
Burleson said: "There's something honest and solid about it, anyway; hanged if there isn't." "Like a hen," suggested Ogilvy, absently.
"Like a hen ?" repeated Burleson.

"What in hell has a hen got to do with the subject ?" "Like _you_, then, John," said Annan, "honest, solid, but totally unacquainted with the finer phases of contemporary humour--" "I'm as humorous as anybody!" roared Burleson.
"Sure you are, John--just as humorously contemporaneous as anybody of our anachronistic era," said Ogilvy, soothingly.

"You're right; there's nothing funny about a hen." "And here's a highball for you, John," said Neville, concocting a huge one on the sideboard.
"And here are two charming ladies for you, John," added Sam, as Valerie and Rita Tevis entered the open door and mockingly curtsied to the company.
"We've dissected _your_ character," observed Annan to Valerie, pointing to her portrait.