“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth.
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