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She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. He remained listening attentively. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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