The Open Air 



curve (of the upper one), ending with a slight curl, 

 like a ringlet at the end of a tress, like those tiny 

 wavelets on a level sand which float in before the 

 tide, or like a frond of fern unrolling. In this curl 

 there lurks a smile, so that she can scarcely open her 

 mouth without a laugh, or the look of one. These 

 upper lips are drawn with parallel lines, the verge is 

 defined by two lines near together, enclosing the 

 narrowest space possible, which is ever so faintly 

 less coloured than the substance of the lip. This 

 makes the mouth appear larger than it really is ; the 

 bow, too, is more flattened than in the pure Greek 

 lip. It is beautiful, but not perfect, tempting, 

 mischievous, not retiring, and belongs to a woman 

 who is never long alone. To describe it first is 

 natural, because this mouth is itself the face, and the 

 rest of the features are grouped to it. If you think 

 of her you think of her mouth only the face appears 

 as memory acts, but the mouth is distinct, the 

 remainder uncertain. She laughs and the curl runs 

 upwards, so that you must laugh too, you cannot 

 help it. Had the curl gone downwards, as with 

 habitually melancholy people, you might have with- 

 stood her smile. The room is never dull where she 

 is, for there is a distinct character in it a woman 

 and not a mere living creature, and it is noticeable 

 that if there are five or six or more present, somehow 

 the conversation centres round her. 



There was a lady I knew who had lips like these. 

 Of the kind they were perfect. Though she was 

 barely fourteen she was the woman of that circle by 

 the magnetism of her mouth. When we all met 

 together in the evening all that went on in some way 

 or other centred about her. By consent the choice 

 of what game should be played was left to her to 



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