"Too wise, perhaps. Why are you sure he is an artist?"
"O, well, because he looks like it. He has a Grecian head, and his hair curls adorably, and I'm certain his eyes are blue. He'll be just underneath the window soon, and if he doesn't look up then I shall drop something to make him."
"Come away to lunch and don't be a goose. The gong sounded quite five minutes ago."
Diana withdrew her head reluctantly.
"Who wants to eat cutlets when they can watch a Grecian profile!"
"Perhaps you would sooner drop one on his head to make him look up?"
"I would; much sooner. Do you think they've brought their lunch with them, or shall we send them some?"
"I expect they've got their dinners in red pocket-handkerchiefs, hidden away somewhere at the back."
"Except my Greek"—with a little smile—"and I'm sure his is in a Liberty silk square."
They sat down to lunch in the big, oppressive dining-room alone, as their chaperon, Aunt Emily, was laid up with a headache, and Mr. Henry Pym, Meryl's father, was usually in the City at midday. And after lunch, for the sake of something to do, they ordered the motor and drove out to Ranelagh to see the polo.