antelpieceandneverdusted.Adapperbrunettecompletefromheadtofootservesonlyasanillustrationtolieuponthedrawing-roomtable.Thewomeninthestreetshavethefacesofplayingcardstheoutlinesaccuratelyfilledinwithpinkoryellow,andthelinedrawntightlyroundthem.Then,atatop-floorwindow,leaningout,lookingdown,youseebeautyitselforinthecornerofanomnibusorsquattedinaditch—beautyglowing,suddenlyexpressive,withdrawnthemomentafter.Noonecancountonitorseizeitorhaveitwrappedinpaper.Nothingistobewonfromtheshops,andHeavenknowsitwouldbebettertositathomethanhaunttheplate-glasswindowsinthehopeofliftingtheshininggreen,theglowingruby,outofthemalive.Seaglassinasaucerlosesitslustrenosoonerthansilksdo.Thusifyoutalkofabeautifulwomanyoumeanonlysomethingflyingfastwhichforasecondusestheeyes,lips,orcheeksofFannyElmer,forexample,toglowthrough.
Shewasnotbeautiful,asshesatstifflyherunderliptooprominenthernosetoolargehereyestooneartogether.Shewasathingirl,withbrilliantcheeksanddarkhair,sulkyjustnow,orstiffwithsitting.WhenBramhamsnappedhisstickofcharcoalshestarted.Bramhamwasoutoftemper.Hesquattedbeforethegasfirewarminghishands.Meanwhileshelookedathisdrawing.Hegrunted.Fannythrewonadressing-gownandboiledakettle.
"ByGod,it'sbad,"saidBramham.
Fannydroppedontothefloor,claspedherhandsroundherknees,andlookedathim,herbeautifuleyes—yes,beauty,flyingthroughtheroom,shonethereforasecond.Fanny'seyesseemedtoquestion,tocommiserate,tobe,forasecond,loveitself.Butsheexaggerated.Bramhamnoticednothing.Andwhenthekettleboiled,upshescrambled,morelikeacoltorapuppythanalovingwoman.
NowJacobwalkedovertothewindowandstoodwithhishandsinhispockets.Mr.Springettoppositecameout,lookedathisshopwindow,andwentinagain.Thechildrendriftedpast,eyeingthepinksticksofsweetstuff.Pickford'svanswungdownthestreet.Asmallboytwirledfromarope.Jacobturnedaway.Twominuteslaterheopenedthefrontdoor,andwalkedoffinthedirectionofHolborn.
FannyElmertookdownhercloakfromthehook.NickBramhamunpinnedhisdrawingandrolleditunder