He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. With an open hand, he slapped her face. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. “I have been bearing this—for your sake. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. I’ve no name for it yet. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity.
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