He made a vague gesture.
"Bad news from home?"
"Home?" He tried to make his tone flippant. "Is there any such place?"
"Fine!" she said. "You're coming on, Walter. Your worst fault used to be your belief in such superstitions."
It was her turn now to hide her seriousness behind the mask of flippancy.
"Do you notice anything particular about the furniture in this room?"
"It's fine old Empire."
"Well, it doesn't matter whether it's Empire, or Louis Seize, or Henri Quatre, or Chinois. It isn't Gothic! That's the important point. Yes," she went on in answer to the question in his eyes, "I'm expecting the final papers any day. I'll take my maiden name. Beatrice Maynard."
She threw back her head and blew out some rings of the fragrant smoke.
"It took me a long time to learn this trick," she said, as if it were a very serious matter. "The man who kept the Morgue on The Star taught me—in the old days."