He had no active dislike for this young woman, and felt a
certain respect for her talent, but he thought, as before, how
impossible it would be ever to regard her as anything but an
abnormality. She was not ill-looking, but seemed to have no single
characteristic of her sex which appealed to him.
"What do you think of that?" she asked abruptly, handing him an
illustrated paper which had lain open on her lap.
The page she indicated was covered with some half-dozen small
drawings, exhibiting scenes from a popular cafe in Paris, done with
a good deal of vigour, and some skill in the seizing of facial
types.
"Your work?" he asked.
"Mine?" she cried scoffingly. "I could no more do that than swim the
channel. Look at the name, can't you?"
He found it in a corner.
"Kite? Our friend?"
"That's the man. He's been looking up since he went to Paris. Some
things of his in a French paper had a lot of praise; nude figures--
queer symbolical stuff, they say, but uncommonly well done. I
haven't seen them; in London they'd be called indecent, the man said
who was telling me about them. Of course that's rot. He'll be here
in a few days, Olga says."
"She hears from him?"
"It was a surprise letter; he addressed it to this shop, and I sent
it on--that's only pot-boiling, of course." She snatched back the
paper. "But it's good in its way--don't you think?"
"Very good.
Pages:
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392