For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Some one was standing beside him. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. It would be very hard perhaps to make you understand just how I feel about it.
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