At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum, reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the tired woman had made her buy. “She finds lying up so much very irksome. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man.
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