"I'll bet you do!" thought the man.
They passed down a narrow passage and into the long empty room with its crude top-light, so trying to many a fair-haired woman.
But Cydonia stood the test triumphantly, her skin shell-like above her furs.
A single sad-faced man was standing in possession of the scene, gazing with ardent eyes at a violent blue seascape.
"I'll guarantee that's the artist." McTaggart whispered in her ear. "Don't let's break into his dreams—— That sofa looks comfortable."
They sat down on the green plush, side by side, and Cydonia played with the violets at her breast, conscious of McTaggart's eyes.
"Don't you want to see the pictures?" She made an effort at small talk. "I thought—you said—they were rather fine."
"Never heard of them in my life! Besides, I'm looking at a picture."
Cydonia vainly pretended to miss the meaning of his speech. She pointed a slender finger at the portrait of a Spanish girl, facing the pair with a bold smile, a red rose behind her ear.
"I like the colour of her hair—that glossy black which looks blue..."