’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. “Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. You cannot draw. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued.
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