“No, don’t interrupt me. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. “Well,” she achieved at last. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way.
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