155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. "Can't!" repeated his mother. ’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. She turned back into the hall. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. . There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. All these wonderful comrades, henceforth and for ever hers. I’m not ashamed—of the things I’m doing. Another glass, Jack.
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