But you—you have a good face. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. He laughed. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. She could see that he was curious, so she sat upon him and they rocked back and forth. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Jack turned away with an aching heart.
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