sat up very straight, carefully placed her cup of tea on a nearby pear-wood table, and gave every evidence in the expressive working of her features of the liveliest excitement. Paul, she announced—she was shriller even than usual—had the most extraordinary experience yesterday with a boiler-mender.
Did he beat Paulet up? Campaspe demanded.
No. It was stranger than that. He asked the man to dine with him.
Alert at last, Campaspe inquired, Did the fellow accept the invitation?
Yes, he did, and they had a curious conversation, but Paul can't remember a word of it, and then the man disappeared. Paul blames me for that. . . . Vera was almost crying now. Her words were pronounced in a whimper. . . . He complains that I telephoned at the wrong moment and interrupted them, but how could I know, Campaspe, that Paul was dining with a boiler-mender? I'm sure he has no right to blame me. I . . .
Where did he meet him? Campaspe broke in.
In the basement. He was fixing the furnace. He had fixed it, as a matter of fact. Paul found him reading the Persian poets . . .
The Persian poets! Campaspe echoed.
In the basement! What is the world coming to? Laura shook her head deprecatingly.
and standing on his head, Vera completed her sentence, goggling about her wildly. What do you make of it?
