She was sitting on a rock with her feet crossed, and she was inspecting her chin in the tiny mirror of her vanity bag.

Some blemish--or more likely an insect bite, from the way her fingertip pressed carefully a certain point of her chin--seemed to hold all her attention.

It was the sun flashing on the bit of mirror that had made the gleam.
Jack watched her hungrily; her slim shape, leaning negligently sidewise; her hat pushed back a little; her hair, the color of ripe corn, fluffed where the wind had blown it; the clear, delicate, creamy tint of her skin, her mouth curved in soft, red lines that held one's eyes fascinated when they moved in speech.

He watched her, never thinking of the rudeness of it.
And then he saw her lift her face and look up to the peak, directly at him, it seemed to him.

His face turned hot, and he lowered the glass guiltily.