He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. ’ ‘That’s better. But I'll tell e'e what we might do——" The young man heard no more. My heart cannot take it. . ’ ‘Very true. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing.
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