The door on the opposite side of the little vestibule was open. Looking over Coleman’s shoulder, Gumbril could see through the opening a brightly lighted room and, in the middle of it, like a large rectangular island, a wide divan. Reclining on the divan an odalisque by Ingres—but slimmer, more serpentine, more like a lithe pink length of boa—presented her back. That big, brown mole on the right shoulder was surely familiar. But when, startled by the loudness of the voices behind her, the odalisque turned round—to see in a horribly embarrassing instant that the Cossack had left the door open and that people could look in, were looking in, indeed—the slanting eyes beneath their heavy white lids, the fine aquiline nose, the wide, full-lipped mouth, though they presented themselves for only the fraction of a second, were still more recognizable and familiar. For only the fraction of a second did the odalisque reveal herself definitely as Rosie. Then a hand pulled feverishly at the counterpane, the section of buff-coloured boa wriggled and rolled; and, in a moment, where an odalisque had been, lay only a long packet under a white sheet, like a jockey with a fractured skull when they carry him from the course. Well, really.... Gumbril felt positively indignant; not jealous, but astonished and righteously indignant. “Well, when you’ve finished bathing,” said Mrs. Viveash, “I hope you’ll come and have dinner with us.” Coleman was standing between her and the farther door; Mrs. Viveash had seen nothing in the room beyond the vestibule. “I’m busy,” said Coleman. “So I see.” Gumbril spoke as sarcastically as he could. “Do you see?” asked Coleman, and looked round. “So you do!” He stepped back and closed the door. “It’s Theodore’s last dinner,” pleaded Mrs. Viveash. “Not even if it were his last supper,” said Coleman, enchanted to have been given the opportunity to blaspheme a little. “Is he going to be crucified? Or what?” “Merely going abroad,” said Gumbril. “He has a broken heart,” Mrs. Viveash explained. “Ah, the genuine platonic towsers?” Coleman uttered his artificial demon’s laugh. “That’s just about it,” said Gumbril, grimly. Relieved by the shutting of the door from her immediate embarrassment, Rosie threw back a corner of the counterpane and extruded her head, one arm and the shoulder with the mole on it. She looked about her, opening her slanting eyes as wide as she could. She listened with parted lips to the voices that came, muffled now, through the door. It seemed to her as though she were waking up; as though now, for the first time, she were hearing that shattering laugh, were looking now for the first time on these blank, white walls and the one lovely and horrifying picture. Where was she? What did it all mean? Rosie put her hand to her forehead, tried to think. Her thinking was always a series of pictures; one after another the pictures swam up before her eyes, melted again in an instant.