“I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. Particles of bullet were embedded in Rhea’s large arm as she swung across the stones in her donated legs. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. She laughed. . At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again.
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