A friend probably had looked him up for a drink and smoke. He was glad; he wanted companionship, easy, genial companionship, not that pale devil Schuabe, with his dreary talk and everlasting reminder.
He went out into the passage and opened the front door. A woman stood there.
She moved, and the light from the hall shone on her face.
The eyes were brilliant, the lips were half parted.
It was Gertrude Hunt.
They were sitting on each side of the fire.
Gertrude was pale, but her dark beauty blazed at him.
She was smoking a cigarette, just as in the old time.
A little table with a caraffe of brandy and bottles of seltzer in a silver stand stood between them.