She was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, he concluded.

She looked as if she knew the world inside out, and as if there were something hidden below the gaiety.
Peter felt curiously and intensely attracted.

His shyness vanished.

He had, and had had, no intimations of the doings of Providence, and nobody could possibly be more sceptical of fate-lines than he, but it dawned on him as he stared at her that he would fathom that look somehow, somewhere.
"I'm practically not made up at all," she whispered, without turning her head, "so for Heaven's sake don't say there's too much powder on my nose." Peter shook silently.

"No, but a faint trace on the right cheek," he whispered back.