Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. I am a man—of a sort of experience. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. The girl’s eyes never left his face. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further.
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