Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. ‘You don’t believe her?’ ‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham pointed out. And it is not at all his affair. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. .
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