on her his light smile. He turned to go, hesitated. The temptation was too strong.
"Miss Carew paints portraits?"
"Yes," said the stenographer, "beautiful portraits."
He smiled, biting his lips. He remembered the parallel lines, the reluctant little hand drawing them across the board.
"No more parallel lines, Cousin Antony."
He did not believe that she painted beautiful portraits. He would have loved to see her work, oh, how much! There must be some of it here.
"There is nothing of hers here, I suppose?"
He went across the little room to the door. He could hardly bear to go from here, from the only place that had any knowledge of Bella as far as he knew.
He took out his card, scribbled his address upon it, handed it to the stenographer, without asking anything of her but to let him know when she would come back.
The woman nodded sympathetically.