“You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. Then her fingers moved. “Martin, I don’t know what to say. That blow made me a thief. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. The theme was a masquerade. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums. This way, Sir Rowland.
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