We men are like children. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken. ” Anna laid down her serviette. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. . “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators.
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