Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ’ She tossed her head.
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