Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. I’ve just seen him. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. He was tall, slender, and suave. Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him.
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