Shall I?"
"Please do."
"One simply doesn't go and see the Tower, because that's what
trippers do. Don't you understand, my dear? (Pardon the `my
dear' again.) The Tower is the sort of thing school
superintendents see and then go back and lecture on in school
assembly-room and the G. A. R. hall. I'll take you to the Tate
Gallery." Then, very abruptly, "G' night," and she was gone.
He stared after her smooth back, thinking: "Gee! I wonder if
she got sore at something I said. I don't think I was fresh
this time. But she beat it so quick.... Them lips of hers--I
never knew there was such red lips. And an artist--paints
pictures!... Read a lot--Nitchy--German musical comedy. Wonder
if that's that `Merry Widow' thing?... That gray dress of hers
makes me think of fog. Cur'ous."
In her room Istra Nash inspected her nose in a mirror, powdered,
and sat down to write, on thick creamy paper:
Skilly dear, I'm in a fierce Bloomsbury boarding-house--bores
--except for a Phe-nomenon--little man of 35 or 40 with
embryonic imagination & a virgin soul.
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