But Jack and his companion were already gone. Miss Charvill. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. There was a certain amount of disputation, and meanwhile she went on at school. She was guided into the dock and prompted by a helpful police inspector. Drink for him had a queer phase. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. I don’t believe in the faults. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage.
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