There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. But, you see, I’m smirched. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. So I introduced him to my father-in-law like a shot. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness.
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