The door between the bedroom and the drawing room, left open in the
night for ventilation, had been softly closed as usual during G.J.'s
final sleep, and the bedroom was in absolute darkness save for a faint
grey gleam over the valance of the window curtains. G.J. could think.
He wondered whether he was in love. He hoped he was in love, and the
fact that the woman who attracted him was a courtesan did not disturb
him in the least.

He was nearing fifty years of age. He had casually known hundreds of
courtesans in sundry capitals, a few of them very agreeable; also a
number of women calling themselves, sometimes correctly, actresses,
all of whom, for various reasons which need not be given, had proved
very unsatisfactory. But he had never loved--unless it might be,
mildly, Concepcion, and Concepcion was now a war bride. He wanted to
love. He had never felt about any woman, not even about Concepcion, as
he felt about the woman seen for a few minutes at the Marigny Theatre
and then for five successive nights vainly searched for in all the
chief music-halls of Paris. (A nice name, Christine! It suited her.)
He had given her up--never expected to catch sight of her again; but
she had remained a steadfast memory, sad and charming. The encounter
in the Promenade in Leicester Square was such a piece of heavenly and
incredible luck that it had, at the moment, positively made him giddy.
The first visit to Christine's flat had beatified and stimulated him.
Would the second? Anyhow, she was the most alluring woman--and
yet apparently of dependable character!--he had ever met. No other
consideration counted with him.

There was a soft knock; the door was pushed, and wavy reflections of
the drawing-room fire played on the corner of the bedroom ceiling.