She had narrowly escaped Martin in Orchestra class, who had been wrapped up discussing a new piece of his with Mr. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. Caution forced her to speak calmly. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about.
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