I reentered my room an

Ian in Ten Lessons of which I am foolishly proud. We talked of Fiesole,
where he had lived. Once I rode from Fiesole down the hill to Florence
in the moonlight. I remember endless walls on which hung roses, fresh
and blooming. I remember a gaunt nunnery and two-gray-robed sisters
clanging shut the gates. I remember the searchlight from the military
encampment, playing constantly over the Arno and the roofs--the eye of
Mars that, here in Europe, never closes. And always the flowers nodding
above me, stooping now and then to brush my face. I came to think that
at the end Paradise, and not a second-rate hotel, was waiting. One may
still take that ride, I fancy. Some day--some day-- I dined in Soho. I
came back to Adelphi Terrace in the hot, reeking August dusk, reflecting
that the mystery in which I was involved was, after a fashion, standing
still. In front of our house I noticed a taxi waiting. I thought nothing
of it as I entered the murky hallway and climbed the familiar stairs. My
door stood open. It was dark in my study, save for the reflection of the
lights of London outside. As I crossed the thresho

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