Passing her eyes scrutinizingly over the old seats, the walls with their loose papering and the chromos in greenish frames, she spied something dark, rectangular and deep occupying one corner of the room.

She did not know whether it was a divan, a bed or a funeral catafalque.

The shabby covers that were spread over it reminded one of the beds of the barracks or of the prison.
"Ah, no!..." Freya made one bound toward the door.

She would never be able to eat beside that filthy piece of furniture which had come from the scum of Naples.

"Ah, no! How loathesome!" Ulysses was standing near the door, fearing that Freya's discoveries might go further, and hiding with his back that bolt which was the waiter's pride.