He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with.
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