Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. “No!” he said aloud at last. The Scotchman informed Ann Veronica that your view of beauty necessarily depended on your metaphysical premises, and the young man with the Russell-like hair became anxious to distinguish himself by telling the Japanese student that Western art was symmetrical and Eastern art asymmetrical, and that among the higher organisms the tendency was toward an external symmetry veiling an internal want of balance. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw.
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