Supper was over. Spurlock. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Kneebone. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. “Then what did you do?” Lucy’s eyes leveled with her. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. ’ Gerald sat back in his chair, thinking hard. Losing his presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the frame. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation.
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