The man looked hard at him. Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. John eased off. . . He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. Neither their mother nor Sebastian noticed, as certain members of the house had taken to avoiding each other. . “So am I. The Frenchman was already being followed.
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