Dick had taken no notice of these communications.

She had resolved to write no more.

When she returned to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return earlier--she would speak to him.

She missed the Sunday afternoon conferences more than she cared to admit.

All that Kami said was, 'Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours,' and he had been repeating the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,--an old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt hat.
But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her where the error lay.