"She has gone to fetch some fresh rolls," he said.
A smell of coffee confirmed this supposition.
The thought of eating in this room, with its dead air and its ghosts, gave Grover a slight feeling of nausea. Vaudreuil's bedroom, he was thinking, would smell of pommades, and not of hot water and soap. And on a table, within easy reach, there would probably be a little white box—
He wondered why the words "New Jersey" had bobbed up in his mind. A few seconds later he traced their source to a monograph on the back of a volume, which he picked up. It was a stoutly bound score of Parsifal, and on the shelves beside it were many other opera scores. Near the piano he saw stacks of music, a rich and enticing variety. Many of the sheets were stamped with the same initials: N. J.
He had got up to look through the music when the hostile old woman came in with coffee and rolls. There was nothing to do but accept the place set for him, though for two pins he would have bowed and walked out of the house forever.
But the presence of the coffee revived his host. They talked of vague things then, the tedium of life, the foolishness of human aims, the unsatisfactory status of civilization. It was most depressing.
If he would only open a window, thought Grover, or go and get dressed.
But Vaudreuil's dilatoriness in dressing was accounted for, an hour later, when the talk had come
