"I don't know," she answered vaguely. " "I am one-and-twenty," observed Jack. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. What will you give me to save you from your pursuers?" "Can you do so?" asked the other, doubtfully. But I dare not accept it. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. "You don't eat," continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand. They did not want her.
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