He held her eyes. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. “I think she would,” she decided. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly.
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