Yes, Mr. Hollander’s eyes were glittering—even in that second flash she had just caught of them. But possibly he, too, had the fidgets. He’d been sitting terribly quiet for the past ten minutes or so. Not a budge out of him. A body would forget he was there, almost.
Of course he was handsome. Especially in that soft, vague light from the distant lamp which picked his pale features out obscurely. And they were pale, at that. Genuinely pale. She did hope he wasn’t going to be ill or have a nervous breakdown and ruin this perfectly marvellous case of the dear doctor’s. …
Mrs. Sanford Worth. What a pleasant name it would be. Distingué. How apt the French were! (She knew ten phrases.)
Was that right hand of Mr. Hollander’s actually moving, or was it an illusion of light and shade? It seemed to be slipping slowly from the arm of the chair and would eventually end up in his lap. It was moving—it wasn’t—quite creepy, really. Damn the fidgets! She shifted her centre of balance and felt temporarily relieved. Overstuffed chairs were really wretched for prolonged periods of sitting, when you came right down to it, whereas a good old-fashioned horsehair sofa, such as Aunt Helen had had at Sciota. …
Why, the hand was gone!
Positively gone—like a conjuring trick.
It wasn’t on the arm of the chair, so it must be in Mr. Hollander’s lap. Then it had been moving after all, and she hadn’t been just imagining it. Why, it was almost sneaky . …
His profile was toward her. Not a snub nose, exactly, nor retroussé. You couldn’t apply that term to anything about a man, and whatever else he might be, Mr. Hollander certainly was a man.