The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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