Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. “How well and jolly you must be feeling. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. It was the moment for smiles.
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