Chapter seventeenMevancy reclined in a graceful posture on a chaise longue with the radiance of the Suns of Scorpio reflecting in from the high north window. She had a filmy scarf cunningly draped about her back with the ends beautifully folded about both her forearms. Her bindles were thus concealed. Apart from the scarf she wore no other clothes.
Her usual high color burned into a brilliant rosy flush as I barged into the room. “Cabbage! Get out!”
The lively young fellow in the painter’s smock had his back to me, working at his easel. He turned his head, saw me, and dropped his charcoal.
“Majister!” he said, his pleasing face with the brown hair and eyes frank and not over-awed. “You completely fooled me.”
“Are you going to go, cabbage, or are you going to gawp?”
“Now then, pigeon.
