. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. ” He replied. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly.
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