He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. 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. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. Perhaps because I don’t know. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. Heaven alone knows why. Of course there are, millions of them.
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