For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot.
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