“I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. ” She shook her head. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. ‘That I do not yet know. One research is very like another. Little woman, you have been brave enough before. Do you expect me, I wonder. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage.
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