Not that any such consideration led her to gloss or to minimise the
disabilities of her own. She sat sometimes in gravest wonder, pinching
her lips, and watched the studiously modified interest of his glance
following her into its queer by-ways--her sphere's--full of spangles and
lime-light, and the first-class hysteria of third-class rival artistry.
There was a fascination in bringing him out of his remoteness near to
those things, a speculation worth making as to what he might do. This
remained ungratified, for he never did anything. He only let it appear
by the most indefinite signs possible that he saw what she saw, peering
over his paling, and she in the picturesque tangle outside found it
enough.
He was there when she came back from the _Chronicle_ office, patient
under the blue umbrellas; he had brought her a book, and they had told
him she would not be long in returning. He had gone so far as to order
tea for her, and it was waiting with him. "Make it," she commanded; "why
haven't you had some already?" and while he bent over the battered
Britannia metal spout she sank into the nearest seat and let her hat
make a frame for her face against the back of it.
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