" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. It will take a month to clean up. At least I can’t talk to them. Wasting no time, he crossed straight to the shutters and opened them. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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