She flew up from her stool and faced the door. ’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Martha had not been pleased to find her spare one borrowed for that expedition when the major had found her outside the ballroom. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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