These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. Nigel Ennison was he. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Wild in his own domain. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately.
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