Supper was over. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. But they were too late. ” “But what are you going to do—where are you going to live?” Annabel asked. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. Her efforts were vain. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau.
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