Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. You won’t want to be late the first evening, and it’s ten minutes past seven now. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. “Amazing. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. Pardon what I have said, Madam.
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