62 <8> A FIRST DATE WITH JOHN DIEDERMAYER The weekend began for her with that luxury of all luxuries, sleep. He brightened as she took off her hood. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief.
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