The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. ” “I will buy books and a lay figure,” he declared, “to practise upon. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. ‘By the by, get Trodger to send up one of our best men, will you? Someone discreet.
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