Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds. The flat was apparently empty. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. ’ ‘Parbleu,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up in some dudgeon.
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