To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. The door opened. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. ’ Dieu du ciel, but she was a fool. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. ‘I’ve never found a woman who did not drive me into a frenzy of boredom.
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