The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. He had to know the truth, Melusine. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house.
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