“Go to her,” said his aunt, and held the front door open.
Edwin Dell reached the studio of Valerie Keat late Christmas night. Inside he could hear the sounds of revelry—unrestrained laughter, bursts of song, a jazzing phonograph, the bursting of toy balloons, the popping of corks. Valerie Keat was holding high carnival. His heart was no bigger than a pea as he knocked. The door opened and a wave of hot air laden with confetti, tobacco smoke, incense and the fumes of alcohol rushed out and engulfed him. Inside he saw a mad whirlpool of gala-dressed dancers. Valerie Keat herself had opened the door; she stood there in an artful evening gown of shimmering silver, with no back whatsoever.
“Well?” she snapped.
“It is I. Edwin. Ned,” he said.
“So I see. What of it.” Her voice was icy.
“Where shall I put my goloshes?” he asked.
She pointed down the stairs behind him.
“That way. One after another,” she said.
He staggered as if from a blow.