“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Will you take it in to him?” The young man smiled in a superior manner. “An Oracle you are! Sebastian never told me he’d made one!” Rhea screamed a scream that was part horror and part laughter. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your husband everything.
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