“I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. The rest of his attire was nondescript. There was a young lad ahead of her. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. Her efforts were vain. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. Ten days should see you on your feet. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion.
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