Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. ” “Kitty is wonderful,” said another. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. .
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