" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. "Your voice seems familiar to me—and—but I'm getting a little deaf—and my eyes don't serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality.
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