She hastened past. “Go on!” she commanded. It was neither good nor bad. 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. You are just necessary to life for me. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance.
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