Maisie

i He didn't know what he was going to do about Maisie.

On a fine, warm day in April Maisie had come home. He had motored her up
from the station, and now the door of the drawing-room had closed on
them and they were alone together in there.

"Oh, Jerrold--it _is_ nice--to see you--again."

She panted a little, a way she had when she was excited.

"Awfully nice," he said, and wondered what on earth he was going to do
next.

He had been all right on the station platform where their greetings had
been public and perfunctory, but now he would have to do something
intimate and, above all, spontaneous, not to stand there like a stick.

They looked at each other and he took again the impression she had
always given him of delicate beauty and sweetness. She was tall and her
neck bent slightly forward as she walked; this gave her the air of
bowing prettily, of offering you something with a charming grace. Her
shoulders and her hips had the same long, slenderly sloping curves. Her
hair was mole brown on the top and turned back in an old-fashioned way
that uncovered its hidden gold. Her face was white; the thin bluish
whiteness of skim milk. Her mauve blue eyes looked larger than they were
because of their dark brows and lashes, and the faint mauve smears about
their lids. The line of her little slender nose went low and straight in
the bridge, then curved under, delicately acquiline, its nostrils were
close and clean cut. Her small, close upper lip had a flying droop; and
her chin curved slightly, ever so slightly, away to her throat. When she
talked Maisie's mouth and the tip of her nose kept up the same
sensitive, quivering play. But Maisie's eyes were still; they had no
sparkling speech; they listened, deeply attentive to the person who was
there. They took up the smile her mouth began and was too small to
finish.