She pushed the portiere aside with a curved hand and gracefully
separated fingers; it was a staccato movement and her body followed
it after an instant's poise of hesitation, head thrust a little
forward, eyes inquiring and a tentative smile, although she knew
precisely who was there. You would have been aware at once that she
was an actress. She entered the room with a little stride and then
crossed it quickly, the train of her morning gown - it cried out of
luxury with the cheapest voice - taking folds of great audacity as
she bent her face in its loose mass of hair over Laura Filbert,
sitting on the edge of a bamboo sofa, and said - "You poor thing!
Oh, you POOR thing!" She took Laura's hand as she spoke, and tried
to keep it; but the hand was neutral, and she let it go. "It is a
hand," she said to herself, in one of those quick reflections that
so often visited her ready-made, "that turns the merely inquiring
mind away. Nothing but feeling could hold it."
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