He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. “Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning,” he said. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. “Please, stay a while longer. .
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