It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been seen in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. Who invented them? Nobody knows. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came.
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