She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “Like what, Lucy?” She saw the panic threaten to overtake him. Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. ‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him.
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