"Oh! no—no—no," cried Winifred, "I cannot believe it. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. 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. You can think all round me. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. . “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. Wood uttered something like an imprecation.
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