The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. But most of all, I wanted to love. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. Her head swam. “I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards. It was the moment for smiles. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. ” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. And you’re as clean as fire.
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