There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Sometimes it seemed that she would never recover it. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas.
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