JILL had spent the morning at the Ecu d'Or, writing letters. They had taken a small salon, au premier, sparsely furnished with a carved centre-table, two red velvet chairs, a velvet sofa, and three bronzes on the mantelpiece; two of them vases encrusted with flowers and between these a galloping horse, a clock set in its chest, and on its back a rider clothed only in a turbulent scarf.
The day was so cold and so dreary that Jill had had a fire lighted and it was before the fire that Graham found her, stretched on the sofa, a cigarette between her lips; and, turning her head to look round at him, she said, 'Well?'
Graham came and stood at the head of the sofa. She could not see him as he stood there above her.
'What kind of time did you have?' she asked.
'The old lady was very cross with me,' said Graham after a moment.
'Of course she was,' said Jill.
'But I enjoyed her,' said Graham. 'She's such a clever old scoundrel.'
'Of course she is.—Not such a scoundrel, either. She's merely very human. And I'm sorry for her,' said Jill. 'It must be so bewildering to see you transfer
