He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. He was here shortly after the young man was taken ill. Martin’s parents looked at each other in embarrassed, silent communication. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. “Perhaps you will not object to answering one for me. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London.
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