my first symphony!” Brown’s eyebrows rose skeptically. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Earles declared good-humouredly, “but I shall not let you go without drinking a glass of wine to our success. . ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings.
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