“Yes. Good-bye.”
And she tore herself away.
At the first turning of the stairs Amory stood aside to allow a rather untidy young woman to pass. This young woman had a long bare neck that reminded Amory of an artist’s model, and her hands were thrust into the fore-pockets of a brown knitted coat. She was whistling, but she stopped when she saw Amory.
“Do you know whether Mr. Dickinson, the poster artist, is up here?” she asked.
“The next floor, I think,” Amory replied.
“Thanks,” said the girl, and passed up.
IV
THE OUTSIDERS
“No, not this week,” Dorothy said. “Dot wrote a fortnight ago. This one’s from Mollie. (You remember Mollie, Katie? She came to that funny little place we had on Cheyne Walk once, but of course she was only about twelve then. She’s nearly nineteen now, and so tall! They’ve just gone to Kohat).—Shall I read it, auntie?”
And she read:—