“Not at all. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants.
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