There was also the daunting task of getting dressed. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. “No man can realize,” she said, “what that pit can be. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats.
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