There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot.
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