There was a strained, eager expression on his face. Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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