“Yes, wasn’t I?” he said simply. They had reached the large landing. Turning to the right, they entered a Gothic corridor. “Here you are.” He stopped before an open door and stood aside for her to precede him. “Remember, I warned you,” he finished apologetically.
The entire room was done in old gold and turquoise brocade. A narrow, Empire bed, with a canopy, stood lengthwise against the wall. Large, French windows outlined by turquoise hangings, and swathed in heavy lace, opened out on to an iron balcony. A few French prints perched naughtily upon the walls. On the Buhl dressing table was a large Tiffany bowl filled with gardenias. Their amorous scent rose upon the air triumphantly. Anne stooped over them, and inhaled the heady fragrance. It penetrated and warmed her brain like old wine.
“Well, what do you think of it?”
She started slightly at the sound of his voice directly behind her.
“A temple of love—but not at all respectable, my friend.” Her laugh was both cynical and uncertain. She seated herself on the edge of the bed rather gingerly. The turquoise satin cover rustled voluptuously beneath her.
“I feel like Zola’s Nana, or what’s her name in Pierre Louys’ ‘Aphrodite’.”
He laughed angrily. “I know it is in atrocious taste.”
She held out her hand with a pretty, contrite gesture.
“Don’t worry, dear. After all, we are ourselves, aren’t we? Our surroundings can’t change that. And I shall certainly be very comfortable.” Once more her laugh rippled out uncontrollably. “Did you get the gardenias because the room shrieked for them, or because you really like them?” she demanded.
Crouched at her feet, he leaned his cheek against her outstretched hand.