She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. 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. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. She had never had a real doll. Ennison. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. Only think how compromising.
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