She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. “Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. “You’re splendid. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. But—if you are a friend of Mr. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful.
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