The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. It was a mass of knick-knacks. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. Diable. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. It dawned upon him that he had been abominably used by Ann Veronica. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Nothing else matters. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it.
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