The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. She smiled at the sight of him, and thereat his radiation increased. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment. “I do want you. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently.
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