I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St.
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