It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. ’ ‘Because you are a pig!’ retorted Melusine hotly. You don’t understand. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house.
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