But for the shawl round her shoulders, the glass of hot milk and my sister's slippers, she seemed ready to start immediately.
"Julia, are you well off?" I suddenly asked her.
She smiled. "The sooner I'm paid for that portrait of you the better, George," she said.
"Because," I continued, "his royalties won't keep his boots soled, and as for that mad idea of fighting Carpentier——"
She made an indifferent gesture within the shawl and sipped her milk.
"And now," I pursued her, "I want you to notice how you've changed your mind this last half-hour or so. As you sit there now you haven't the least intention of becoming his secretary. In fact you're calmly planning how you can murder that book of his."
"How do you know that, George?"
"You are. Remember the flash-lamp. He wants to light up his time-scale from sixteen to forty or thereabouts. You want it like a burning-glass, all concentrated in one brilliant spot—yourself. In other words you're planning a mental assault on him."
She laughed delightedly. "Before committing a physical one? George, you shock me! I hope you're not going to lock me into my room!"
"Further than that. You don't intend to lose a moment of time, because those Wanderjahre may be drawing very near."