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” “I am rebuked,” she declared. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand.
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