“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. "The part was crooked," she explained. ” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more selfpossessed than Sydney Courtlaw. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. “Difficulties indeed. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore.
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