She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. Hang the wench! Roding was right. This was irregular. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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