“Does he live here?” he asked her presently. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot. There was no one stirring in the flats. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it.
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