Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. ’ ‘How can I have more? You have taken my pistol. After rifling the room of everything portable, including some of Mrs. I understand. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. She gloried in it: he needed her. He was speechless. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. His manner was deferential, even eager.
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