CHAPTER V.
CONFIDENCES The shadows silently lengthened on the lawn.
The home-coming rooks circled and cawed around the tall elm trees.
The sun-dial pointed to six o'clock.
Myra Ingleby rose and stood with the slanting rays of the sun full in her eyes, her arms stretched over her head.

The artist noted every graceful line of her willowy figure.
"Ah, bah!" she yawned.

"It is so perfect out here, and I must go in to my maid.

Jane, be advised in time.

Do not ever begin facial massage.
You become a slave to it, and it takes up hours of your day.