‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. “I will tell you something if you like. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men. 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. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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