It's really funny, you know,
the way pancreatic influences can be idealised--made to serve ennobling
ends. But Mr. Lindsay is--different."
"Yes?" Miss Livingstone's intention was neutral, but, in spite of her,
the asking note was in the word.
"We have done some interesting things together here. He has shown me the
queerest places. Yesterday he made me go with him to Wellesley Square to
look at his latest enthusiasm standing in the middle of it."
"A statue?"
"No, a woman, preaching and warbling to the people. She wasn't new to
me--I knew her before he did--but the picture was and the performance.
She stood poised on a coolie's basket in the midst of a rabble of all
colours, like a fallen angel--I mean a dropped one. Light seemed to come
from her hair or eyes or something. I almost expected to see her sail
away over the palms into the sunset when it was ended."
"It sounds most unusual," Alicia said, with a light smile. Her interest
was rather obviously curbed.
"It happens every day, really, only one doesn't stop and look; one
doesn't go round the corner."
There was another little silence, full of the unwillingness of Miss
Livingstone's desire to be informed.
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