The woman slipped into a chair, and with her chin on her hand, meditatively turned over a page or two. Then she closed the book nonchalantly, almost disdainfully. She confessed that she had no particular love for poetry.
"Tell me about him, though," she finally said quite seriously and quite openly. "I'd like to know something about him—all about him."
Repellier, who had been adjusting a great paint-besplattered easel, came over and took up the thin, green volume.
"This is what I want to knock out of him," he said, tapping the little book, "for a while, at least. And I think, Miss Vaughan, you are the happy possessor of a lot I'd like to pound into him."
"And that is——"
"Oh, I mean poise and balance—good, practical judgment."
"Thank you." She caught up her skirts and courtesied.
Repellier raised a deprecating hand, and laughed.
"Well, you know what I mean. And that's why I'm glad you like him."
"I hardly said that."