'I shall have another walk this afternoon, all the same. I'm feeling a little liverish.'
'I don't think I'll go out. I'm feeling as if I'd caught a cold.'
'I don't wonder.' Graham now walked over to the window and looked out.
Jill, in the silence that followed, was asking herself whether she was really frightened. Dick and she were together. Together. Nothing was hidden between them. Why this strange breathlessness? Was it Dick who was frightened?—She steadied her nerves. It was like drawing at a rein.
Suddenly Graham came back, and sat down beside her and put his head on her shoulder. Jill's heart stood still.
'What would you feel about clearing out of all this, Jill?' he said.
'All this?'
'Yes. Buissac.'
'Are you tired of Buissac?'
'Yes, I think I am. Tired of the old woman. And tired of the young one.—They get on my nerves.'
It was Dick's superstition then. Only that. They must not yield to superstition; though a real fear it might be well to yield to. 'But the portrait?' said Jill.
'I'll chuck it.'
'It seems so cruel to chuck her.'
'I don't mind being cruel.'
'And all those pictures you've started. Don't you mind leaving them?'
