No flats in London were
centrally heated except in the corridors and on the staircases. However,
she had imposed her will on the landlord, and radiators had appeared in
every room. George had a vision of excessive wealth subjugating the
greatest artists and riding with implacable egotism over the customs and
institutions of a city obstinately conservative. The cost and the
complexity of Irene Wheeler's existence amazed and intimidated
George--for this double flat was only one of her residences. He wondered
what his parents would say if they could see him casually treading the
oak parquetry and the heavy rugs of the resplendent abode. And then he
thought, the humble and suspicious upstart: "There must be something
funny about her, or she wouldn't be asking _me_ here!"
They went in to dinner, without ceremony. George was last, the hostess
close to his side.
"Who's the Frenchman?" he inquired casually, with the sudden boldness
that often breaks out of timidity. "I didn't catch."
"It's Monsieur Defourcambault," said Miss Wheeler in a low voice of
sincere admiration. "He's from the Embassy. A most interesting man. Been
everywhere. Seen everything. Read everything. Done everything."
George could not but be struck by the ingenuous earnestness of her tone,
so different from the perfunctory accents in which she had catalogued
her objects of art.
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