Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. I wouldn't allow you to be honest even if you could be so,—which I doubt. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. ' Why," said Ruth, "you did not read that to us.
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