It’s not fair to you. She felt herself getting into a corner. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. She’s right upstairs. Yet there was nothing for her to do. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. 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. A pig, yes, a little. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. .
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