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“Let me know the truth. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. . Burn your palette and your easel. . Sheppard," rejoined Winifred kindly. “Is it your maid?” he asked. This was his humiliation as well as hers. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. She did not know herself. Nor was he long in making it available.
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