out on the terrace that was lined with black idols and dusty native baskets and shields and arrows and tapa, like a museum.
In the dark sitting-room that opened on to the terrace were visitors: an old man in a black morning coat and white hair and beard, and a woman in black crêpe-de-chine, with the inevitable hat of her sort upon her grey hair: a stiff satin turned up on three sides and with black ospreys underneath. She had the baby face and the faded blue eyes and the middle-west accent inevitable.
“Judge and Mrs Burlap.”
The third visitor was a youngish man, very correct and not quite sure. He was Major Law, American military attaché at the moment.
The three people eyed the newcomers with cautious suspicion. They might be shady.