Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. Look at me. Immediately he was gone, she regretted that she had not followed.
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