‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. There was only one prisoner in the ward. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely. I find you an impenetrable enigma. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves.
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