The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

Who was the letter from?

he asked.

Bold hand. Marion.

O, Boylan, she said. He’s bringing the programme.

What are you singing?

L� ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love’s Old Sweet Song.

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.

Would you like the window open a little?