To the duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Lucy was surprised to hear that any party could happen on a week night, but the parents of the house in question were the rich absentee type. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Twice he cleaned the old briar; still there was no improvement. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths.
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