Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. "I do," replied Jack, carelessly. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. 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. It wasn’t. Born on a South Sea island, she said. “I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said.
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