I
Rosaleen went upstairs to the studio, where the party was still going
on. It didn’t seem possible; she felt as if days had gone by, almost as
if she were a ghost coming back from another world. Nothing had
happened, and yet everything had changed. Still the same row, the same
love-making, the same hectic gaiety. Apparently no one had noticed her
hours’ absence; she didn’t count, anyway, except to Mr. Brindell, and he
had long ago gone home.
She went on with her superfluous hospitality. She was neither sleepy nor
tired, nor was she in any way annoyed by the prolongation of the party.
She was willing to continue indefinitely, winding up the phonograph,
filling glasses, now and then dancing with a solitary man; she was in a
waking dream, completely indifferent to the real world about her.