She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. ‘Alcide’ or no ‘Alcide,’ there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone.
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