But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture.
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