“Oh!” exclaimed Yaverland explosively.  He appeared to be about to make some objection, and then he bit back the speech that was already in his mouth.  And as he tried to find other words the beauty of her body caught his attention.  It was, as it happened, very visible at that moment.  The fulness of her overall had fallen to one side as she sat on the high stool, and so that linen was tightly wrapped about her, disclosing that she was made like a delicate fleet beast; in the valley between her high small breasts there lay a shadow, which grew greater when she breathed deeply.  He looked at her with the dispassionateness which comes to men who have lived much in countries where nakedness offers itself unashamed to the sunlight, and said to himself, “I should like to see her run.”  He knew that a body like this must possess an infinite capacity for physical pleasure, that to her mere walking would give more joy than others find in dancing.  And then he raised his eyes to her face and was sad.  For sufficient reasons he was very sensitive to the tragedies of women, and he knew it was a tragedy that such a face should surmount such a body.  For her body would imprison her in soft places:  she would be allowed no adventures other than love, no achievements other than births.  But her face was haggard, in spite of its youth, with appetite for travel in the hard places of the world, for the adventures and achievements that are the birthright of any man.  “It’s rotten luck to be a girl,” he thought.  “If she were a boy I could get her a job at Rio....  Lord, she has lovely hair!” He perceived sharply that he was not likely to be of any more use to her than most men would.  All he could do would be to avert the humiliation which the moment seemed likely to bring down on her.

“Oh, this is a wonderful country,” he said aloud, “where you get people studying Spanish in their off-hours.”  Ellen thought it rather wonderful too, and looked at her toes with a priggish blankness.  “You’ve got a marvellous educational system....”  He paused, conscious that he was too manifestly talking at random.  “In two continents you’ve enjoyed the reputation of being able to talk the hind-leg off a donkey,” he reminded himself.  “It’s the language to learn,” he said aloud.  “It’s the language of the future.  Ever been in Spain, Mr. James?”

“No,” said Mr. Philip, “but I was thinking of going there—­or mebbe Italy—­ma Easter holidays.”  Ellen smiled brilliantly at him, for she knew that he had had no such thought till that evening’s talk with her; she had converted him to a romantic.  He caught her eye, only to glare coldly into the centre of her smile.