"'Not nearly so much painted as most of 'em are,' said my brother Ernest. 'Pretty nearly everyone paints nowadays. Titled people. Bishops' ladies. Widows. Everyone. She didn't strike me—well, as belonging to the painted sort particularly, not in the least. Kind of fresh and a little pale—like Fanny used to be.'
"'Was she dressed like a lady—quiet-like?'
"'Prosperous,' said Ernest. 'Reely prosperous. But nothing what you might call extravagant.'
"'And the house you took 'em to—noisy? Singing and dancing and the windows open?'
"'It was a perfectly respectable quiet sort of 'ouse. Blinds down and no row whatever. A private 'ouse. The people who came to the door to say good night might 'ave been any gentleman and any lady. I see the butler. 'E came down to the car. 'E wasn't 'ired for the evening. 'E was a real butler. The other guests had a private limousine with an oldish, careful sort of driver. Whadyou'd speak of as nice people.''
"'Hardly what you might call being on the streets of London,' said Matilda, turning to my mother. 'What was the gentleman like?'
"'I don't want to 'ear of 'im,' said my mother.
"'Dissipated sort of man about town—and a bit screwed?' asked Matilda.
"''E was a lot soberer than most dinner fetches,' said Ernest. 'I see that when 'e 'andled 'is money. Lots of 'em—oh! quite 'igh-class people get—'ow shall I say it?—just a little bit funny. 'Umerous like. Bit 'nnacurate with the door. 'E wasn't. That's what I can't make out.... And then there's this letter.'
"Then there's this letter,' said Matilda. 'You better read it, Martha.'