“I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly.
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