"Little beast!"

"So you're jealous of _her_, are you? You needn't be. She's gone. She
tried to swallow the _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_ and it disagreed with
her and she died.

"'Nur einmal doch maecht' ich dich sehen,
Und sinken vor dir auf's Knie,
Und sterbend zu dir sprechen,
Madam, ich liebe Sie!'"

"What's that? Oh, what's that?"

"_That_--Madam--is Heine."


VIII.

"My dearest Maurice--"

It was her turn for writing. She wondered whether he would like to hear
about the tennis party at the Vicarage. Mr. Spencer Rollitt's nephew,
Harry Craven, had been there, and the two Acroyd girls from Renton Lodge,
and Norman Waugh.

Harry Craven's fawn face with pointed chin; dust-white face with black
accents. Small fawn's mouth lifting upwards. Narrow nostrils slanting
upwards. Two lobes of white forehead. Half-moons of parted, brushed-back
hair.