She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Their very furniture had mysteriously a high-browed quality, and Mr. Diane spoke first. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. What's it like, Joan?" "It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. He classified her as he seated himself.
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