“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. “You’ll do no such thing, Sheila. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. Several people were passed out on the sectional sofa, and muffled noises emanated from other rooms indicating that the party’s embers were still smoldering, but John was nowhere to be seen. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer.
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