indispensable. Moreover, there was her wit and her candid, queer
respect for G.J.

Yes, he had greatly admired her for her qualities. He did not,
however, greatly admire her physique. She was tall, with a head
scarcely large enough for her body. She had a nice snub nose which in
another woman might have been irresistible. She possessed very little
physical charm, and showed very little taste in her neat, prim frocks.
Not merely had she a masculine mind, but she was somewhat hard, a
self-confessed egoist. She swore like the set, using about one
"damn" or one "bloody" to every four cigarettes, of which she smoked,
perhaps, fifty a day--including some in taxis. She discussed the
sexual vagaries of her friends and her enemies with a freedom and an
apparent learning which were remarkable in a virgin.

In the end she had married Carlos Smith, and, characteristically, had
received him into her own home instead of going to his; as a fact, he
had none, having been a parent's close-kept darling. London had only
just recovered from the excitations of the wedding. G.J. had regarded
the marriage with benevolence, perhaps with relief.

"Anybody else coming to lunch?" he discreetly inquired of his
familiar, the parlour-maid.

She breathed a negative.

He had guessed it. Concepcion had meant to be alone with him. Having
married for love, and her husband being rapt away by the war, she
intended to resume her old, honest, quasi-sentimental relations with
G.J. A reliable and experienced bachelor is always useful to a young