But she suddenly felt it an opportunity, for what she could not have said.
It was like seeing a curious-looking book opened before one; one wanted to read in it, if only a snatched paragraph here and there.
Amelie protested as to infection, but Althea was a resourceful traveller and had disinfectants for every occasion.

She drenched her handkerchief, gargled her throat, and, armed with her little case of remedies, knocked at the door near by.

A languid voice answered her and she entered.
The room was lighted by two candles that stood on the mantelpiece, and the bed in its alcove was dim.

Tossed clothes lay on the chairs; a battered box stood open, its tray lying on the floor; the dressing-table was in confusion, and the scent of cigarette smoke mingled with that of a tall white lily that was placed in a vase on a little table beside the bed.

To the well-maided Althea the disorder was appalling, yet it expressed, too, something of charm.