"Men, Wilmot," she said, "are nothing to me but planes, angles, curves,
masses, lights, and shadows. They are either suited to sculpture or
they aren't."

Wilmot laughed, and while he was busy with the telephone, Barbara tried
to think of the secret-service agent in cold terms of planes, curves,
masses, etc., and found that she couldn't. Which discovery annoyed and
perplexed her.




XI


The girls who plaited hats for Blizzard had just finished luncheon and
were taking their places at the long work-table. The entrance door
having clanged its bell, twenty heads bent earnestly over twenty hats in
various stages of construction, and twenty pairs of hands leaped into
skilful activity.

The master passed up and down on his crutches, observing progress and
despatch with slow-moving, introspective eyes. Presently he came to a
halt and clapped his hands sharply together. Twenty pairs of eyes, some
cringing, some with vestiges of boldness, some favor-currying, sought
his, and twenty pairs of hands ceased work as when power is shut off
from as many machines. Blizzard's eyes passed slowly over the girls in a
sort of appraising review, once, and a second time.