"Do you find it fattening?" she asked.

He recognized the mischievous sparkle of the eyes, the quizzical turn of
the lips, which was her asset in keeping any question from being
personal. Nevertheless, he flushed slightly.

"A change of taste," he averred.

"Since you've become such a great man?" she hazarded. "Is that too
strong?" This referred to the tea.

"No, just right!" he nodded.

He was studying her with the polite, veiled scrutiny of a man of the
world. A materialist, he would look a woman over as he would a soldier
when he had been a major-general making an inspection. She was slim,
supple; he liked slim, supple women. Her eyes, though none the less
luminous, and her lips, though none the less flexible, did not seem
quite as out of proportion with the rest of her face as formerly, now
that it had taken on the contour of maturity, which was noticeable also
in the lines of her figure. Yes, she was twenty-seven, with the vivacity
of seventeen retained, though she were on the edge of being an old maid
according to the conventional notions. Necks and shoulders that happened
to be at his side at dinner, he had found, when they were really
beautiful, were not averse to his glance of appreciative and
discriminating admiration of physical charm. But he saw her shrug
slightly and caught a spark from her eyes that made him vaguely
conscious of an offence to her sensibilities, and he was wholly
conscious that the suggestion, bringing his faculties up sharply, had
the pleasure of a novel sensation.