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Updated: June 18, 2025
Don't let those long-haired boys get a glimpse of it, or it's all up with you." Elinor promised, smiling at Patricia's vehemence, and went off with her canvas, securely wrapped against curious eyes, held firmly in one gray-gloved hand. Patricia looked after her with loving pride. "How pretty she is, and how clever," she thought tenderly.
In spite of the smile on his lips, he looked obstinate and she deliberated, drawing a white sock unmistakably fine and expensive over her gray-gloved hand. Plainly she wanted to see Bob in socks and strap slippers, of the sort her boy would have worn. As she studied the sock Burns studied her profile. "Get him a pair, for your own satisfaction," he conceded.
When he turned his face towards her it was charged with passion, but most of all with a grave masterfulness. He had been sitting on a low seat, but now he kneeled so as to come nearer to her, and, stretching out his long arms, laid a hand, brown, long-fingered, smooth, on her two slight, gray-gloved ones.
On the Englishman's clean-cut face a deeper hue settled as he passed; on Quarrier's, not a trace of emotion; but when he entered his motor he sat bolt upright, stiff-backed and stiff-necked, his long gray-gloved fingers moving restlessly over his pointed heard. The night was magnificent; myriads of summer stars spangled the heavens.
A great car came honking up behind, roared past, and became a red star in the distance. Another flashed out ahead, glared down upon them, and whizzed by. Nelson Randolph spoke again. "Have you no hope for me?" "Oh, yes!" It barely rose through the purring of the car. His right hand left the wheel and closed over the two little gray-gloved ones folded so quietly.
A man and a woman came slowly from the direction of Kew Bridge, sauntering along the wet flagstones of the winding old quay, which was almost as lonely as a rustic lane. Victor Nevill looked very aristocratic and handsome in his long Chesterfield coat and top hat; in one gray-gloved hand he swung a silver-headed stick. Madge Foster walked quietly by his side, a dainty picture in furs.
Her little gray-gloved hands clasped the violets he had given her. Above the violets her eyes were a deeper blue. She came always alone. "Amy doesn't know," she had told him frankly; "she wouldn't let me, come if she did." "Why not?" "I am supposed to be chaperoned." "My dear child, I told you to bring either or both of your sisters." "I don't want them. They would spoil it." "How?"
He was not used to dancing with officers' girls, and he held the small gray-gloved hand in his big fist as if it were a bird about to take flight.
Old shoes in a shower are flung after them; ladies wave their handkerchiefs, gentlemen call good-by. She leans forward and waves her gray-gloved hand in return the cloudless smile on the beautiful face to the last. So they see her as not one of all who stand there will ever see her on earth again. The house, the wedding-guests are out of sight the carriage rolls through the gates of Powyss Place.
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