black, lustrous locks, twisted anyhow high on her head, with long,
untidy wisps hanging down on each side of the clear sallow face; a
mass so thick and strong and abundant that, nothing but to look at,
it gave you a sensation of heavy pressure on the top of your head
and an impression of magnificently cynical untidiness. She leaned
forward, hugging herself with crossed legs; a dingy, amber-
coloured, flounced wrapper of some thin stuff revealed the young
supple body drawn together tensely in the deep low seat as if
crouching for a spring. I detected a slight, quivering start or
two, which looked uncommonly like bounding away. They were
followed by the most absolute immobility.

The absurd impulse to run out after Jacobus (for I had been
startled, too) once repressed, I took a chair, placed it not very
far from her, sat down deliberately, and began to talk about the
garden, caring not what I said, but using a gentle caressing
intonation as one talks to soothe a startled wild animal. I could
not even be certain that she understood me. She never raised her
face nor attempted to look my way. I kept on talking only to
prevent her from taking flight. She had another of those
quivering, repressed starts which made me catch my breath with
apprehension.

Ultimately I formed a notion that what prevented her perhaps from
going off in one great, nervous leap, was the scantiness of her
attire. The wicker armchair was the most substantial thing about
her person. What she had on under that dingy, loose, amber wrapper
must have been of the most flimsy and airy character. One could
not help being aware of it. It was obvious. I felt it actually
embarrassing at first; but that sort of embarrassment is got over