He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. “So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all.
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