His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. He looked at Hilary and nodded. “I really owe him something of an apology. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. My Mom and Dad were on the brink of divorce, what else is new, they still are. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. But there must be an Englishman who would like to marry her to get Remenham House.
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