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"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. 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. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. I thank God for His sunlight on your face.
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