and blunt inky fingers,
June with her rosy pointing nails and her hands like uncurling fans.

His mind went to other things, her low hard volleys and the lithe, easy
grace with which she leapt over the lawn-tennis net. In thinking of her,
the irritation her writing caused him decreased. It seemed altogether
too irrelevant. June was the sort of woman one did things for. Helpless,
he reflected with satisfaction, thinking of her tininess. Why, he could
lift her up with one hand. George always mixed up physical phenomena
with psychological fact. Small women were in need of protection; pale
women were delicate; clever women were masculine--the greatest of all
crimes. June might think it funny to be clever, but no one could deny
that she was feminine--the sort of woman who appealed to you to do
little tiny things for her (things you would have done in any case), as
if they were very important and very dramatic and very difficult. George
liked the sort of woman who said to him: "Mr. Carruthers, you who know
everything----" It was apt, of course, to lead you into a lot of
trouble, but that was one of the necessary results of being a man and
having a superior intellect. June wasn't like that. She never asked you
for legal advice or financial tips. She simply thought it most angelic
of you to have fetched her coat and so clever of you to have noticed
that it was getting chilly. And when you sent her flowers on her
birthday, she would explain to you the flow of delight she had felt and
perhaps a tiny little moment of surprise until she realised that of
course it wasn't surprising at all, but just exactly what she knew at
the bottom of her heart you would do--you, who were such a wonderful
friend. Only the flowers were far more beautiful than she could have
imagined and how had you been able to find them?

George had a photograph of June on his writing table. People were apt to
stop short at it and say: "Is that the _great_ June Rivers, the writer?"
And he would brush the question aside--one must be loyal--and say: "She
is a friend of mine," rather stiffly, as if they had said that she had
run away from her husband or been found drunk.

He looked at it this morning, and suddenly he felt that he must see
her--a feeling she frequently inspired. He knew that she hated the
telephone, so he sent her a little note.

"Dear June: Thank you for your beautifully-bound book. May I come round
this afternoon? I long to see your hair."

He