Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. ‘Was you following, too, miss?’ ‘Certainly I was following. Wood, delighted at the idea. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. I don’t know anyone. At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors.
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