There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. ” She let him make love to her that night.
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