But I never see any lines to draw, and if I did, I wouldn't know how to
draw them."

Stanistreet smiled grimly. He was wondering whether she _was_
"primitive."

"Just look at Scarum's ears! Don't tease her. She doesn't like it. Dear
thing! She's delicious to kiss--she's got such a soft nose. But she'll
bolt as soon as look at you, and she's awfully hard to hold." Her fingers
were twitching with the desire to hold Scarum.

"I think I can manage her."

"You see, somehow or the other I like talking to you. You may be a
sinner, but I don't think you are a fool; and I've a sort of a notion
that you understand."

He was silent. So many women had thought he understood.

"I wonder--_do_ you understand!"

The eyes that Mrs. Nevill Tyson turned on Stanistreet were not
search-lights; they were wells of darkness, unsearchable, unfathomable.

Something in Stanistreet, equally inscrutable, something that was himself
and not himself, answered very low to that vague appeal.

"Yes, I understand."

He had turned towards her, smiling darkly, and all her face flashed back