" "Hullo!" said Ewart, as I came in. "This
is Milly, you know. She's been being a model--she IS a model really....
(keep calm, Ponderevo!) Have some sack?"
Milly was a woman of thirty, perhaps, with a broad, rather pretty face,
a placid disposition, a bad accent and delightful blond hair that waved
off her head with an irrepressible variety of charm; and whenever Ewart
spoke she beamed at him. Ewart was always sketching this hair of hers
and embarking upon clay statuettes of her that were never finished. She
was, I know now, a woman of the streets, whom Ewart had picked up in
the most casual manner, and who had fallen in love with him, but my
inexperience in those days was too great for me to place her then, and
Ewart offered no elucidations. She came to him, he went to her, they
took holidays together in the country when certainly she sustained her
fair share of their expenditure. I suspect him now even of taking money
from her. Odd old Ewart! It was a relationship so alien to my orderly
conceptions of honour, to what I could imagine any friend of mine doing,
that I really hardly saw it with it there under my nose.
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