“Practically.”

“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.

“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all⁠—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”

Of the many things Lucy was noticing today, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.

“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.

“And you and your friend⁠—”

“Were over at the Loggia.”