The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. I am tired, and I want to be alone. It’s an instinct. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better.
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