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She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. The queer phase of the dream was this, she was at no time a woman; she was symbolical of something, and he followed to learn what this something was. Could you pull over? She asked. Would to God I had. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. And then, as she answered nothing, “Seeing that we are lovers. We haven’t. ’ ‘That I do not doubt,’ Gerald muttered drily, but added in a tone of intense satisfaction, ‘Then this husband is still in France? Excellent.
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