‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. Her personal maidservant, the first she had ever had in her life, was joyful for her.
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