The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. But probably not the truth. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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