The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. She felt sharp animal teeth pierce her above her shoulder. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he.
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