Drummond smoked his cigarette meditatively. "Are you answered?" said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. And it is not at all his affair. It is very possible that he will ask you to tell him before witnesses how you received your wound. This done, he let himself carefully down by it, and having only a few feet to drop, alighted in safety. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris.
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