Mrs. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. ‘Gone!’ he said.
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