It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. “But how is it all going to end?” said Mr. An Englishwoman. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She shut the door behind her. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence.
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