She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. He returned, blue towel in hand. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. “You will have some tea?” she asked.
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