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. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. F.
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