’ ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said. ’ ‘Lord, man, it’s only a scratch!’ Suddenly Gerald snapped his fingers. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. If any of you—or all of you feel the same in six months’ time from to-day, will you come, if you care to, and see me then?” There was a brief silence. “There’s no one here except me. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. When she reflected that Mr. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. And look down, so.
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