I had chosen the small restaurant in Jermyn Street because it had no band to distract us.
"I know all that," I retorted. "But if you think that just sitting there loving him is going to produce him, your way may take even longer than mine."
"Pooh!" she said, breaking her roll. "You're wasting your time."
"Don't be irritating, Julia." It irritated me because it was so true. "It's my time anyway."
"No it isn't, not all of it. What about my sittings?" (There had not yet been any, by the way.) "The canvas is ready as soon as you are."
"I'll grow a beard, and then you won't want to paint me," I replied.
Her eyes had sparkled when I had told her about Derry's beard; I had thought she was going to clap her hands. Except for Derry's golden one (she had said) she had never seen a beard that wasn't nasty. I myself (she had informed me) should look a perfect horror in one, and unless I remained clean-shaven she refused to be seen about with me.... So our customary quarrel blew up. We wrangled about one trifle and another half-way through dinner. It probably did us good, for underneath we were both badly on edge. Then along the edge of the table she slid a bent little finger. It was her way of making up. The finger rested in mine for a moment.
"Well," I sighed, "I told you all I saw. I'm afraid that beard threw me quite out of my reckoning."
She mused. "I once drew him with his beard, from memory. In armour. He looked just like King Arthur come to life again. I've got it yet.... But let's look at the thing reasonably, George. I admit there's something to be said for having a pied-à-terre in his rooms. He might just possibly turn up there. It might also be—hm!—awkward if he did.... But the rest, all this hunting for him, that's a wash-out. You know it is."
I was silent. Then again I saw in her eyes what I had seen before—the beginning of a soft deep shining, as if some diver's lamp moved beneath the waters at night.