Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. ‘You’d do the same. "Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. Besides, I don't think he's going to ask, if that is what you are getting at.
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