“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. He’s a catch, Lucy. Everything seemed designed to unhinge the mind and make the cat wretched. And rather unscrupulous. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back.
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