She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. It did so well that they sold it in the nineties. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. Her cheeks were aflame. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls.
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