He took the pencil: and before long there began to appear between Emily’s crude uncertain lines round thighs, rounder bellies, high swelling bosoms, all somewhat in the manner of Rubens.

At the same time his mind was still occupied with reflections on his own astuteness. Yes, it had been a near thing with Margaret⁠—it would have been awkward if, when he returned the party, there had been one missing.

A recollection descended on his mind like a cold douche, something he had completely forgotten about till then. His heart sank⁠—as well it might:

“Hey!” he called to Otto on the deck above. “What was the name of that boy who broke his neck at Santa? Jim⁠—Sam⁠—what was he called?”

Otto did not answer, except by a long-drawn-out whistle.