She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. But there were two places of punishment which merit some notice from their peculiarity. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher.
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