‘Striking--that word sums up all. The big cobalt-blue eyes, that say about as much, in reality, as a china tea-saucer, and are supposed by imaginative men to say everything--blonde hair worn in a pigtail, palpably not original, to her heels; complexion carefully toned to a shade one point short of freckles; bare arms, akimbo--excellently shaped arms, of course; a native prawn basket, and a fishing-dress from Worth’s. I got to know the type so well,’ said Linda, ‘in my governess days, during one summer, especially, when the Benjamin sent me to Houlgate with her children.’ Dinah, who, as we have seen, had no genius for supplying the hooks and eyes of conversation, remained chillingly silent. ‘Your husband had finished his sketch of her--an admirably idealised one. I have it here.’ And Dinah, for the first time, perceived that Mrs. Thorne held possession of Gaston’s sketch-book. ‘Let us look at it together!’ impulsively, ‘or are you--no doubt you are--blasée about sketches? Well, well, it may be natural. Married to an artist, if one has no real, strong, natural talent for art----’ ‘I have no real, strong, natural talent for anything,’ interrupted poor Dinah petulantly. ‘Oh--naughty! You must not say such things. I will not allow you to be modest. Mr. Arbuthnot tells me your needlework is’--Linda looked about her as though an encomium were hard to find--‘most elaborate! In these days needlework ranks among the fine arts. Of course you are wild about this exquisite new stitch from Vienna?’ ‘I have not seen it. The only wool-work I do is old-fashioned cross-stitch.’ ‘Just fancy! And Mr. Arbuthnot, I am convinced, spends his time--half his time--in designing quite lovely patterns for you?’ Dinah’s breast swelled as a vision of the Roscoff wild roses overcame her. She made no attempt at a parry. ‘If I had married an artist I would never have gone to the shops for patterns. Or rather, if I had married an artist I would never have embroidered at all. I should have thrown myself into his ambitions, his work--have spent my life so utterly at his side.’ Dinah stooped to pick up a little pink shell from the strand, by this action freeing herself from Linda Thorne. She put the shell inside her glove, thinking she would keep it as a memento of Langrune and of this summer day that had passed so nearly without a cloud. So nearly--but the summer day was not over yet!