" "Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence. “Dear me!” he said. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ” She said through a closed mouth. ’ He bowed and indicated the open door at the back of the hall. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. ” “What do you mean—by too late?” he demanded. I have given up painting. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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