At two periods of the day Marthe, with great effort and for professional purposes, achieved some degree of personal tidiness.  The first period began at about four o’clock in the afternoon.  By six o’clock or six-thirty she had slipped back into the sloven.  The second period began at about ten o’clock at night.  It was more brilliant while it lasted, but owing to the accentuation of Marthe’s characteristics by fatigue it seldom lasted more than an hour.  When Marthe opened the door to G.J. she was at her proudest, intensely conscious of being clean and neat, and unwilling to stand any nonsense from anybody.  Of course she was polite to G.J. as the chief friend of the establishment and a giver of good tips, but she deprecated calls by gentlemen in the evening, for unless they were made by appointment the risk of complications at once arose.

The mention of an air-raid rendered her definitely inimical.  Formerly Marthe had been more than average nervous in air-raids, but she had grown used to them and now defied them.  As she kept all windows closed on principle she heard less of raids than some people.  G.J. did not explain the circumstances.  He simply asked if Madame had returned.  No, Madame had not returned.  True, Marthe had not been unaware of guns and things, but there was no need to worry; Madame must have arrived at the theatre long before the guns started.  Marthe really could not be bothered with these unnecessary apprehensions.  She had her duties to attend to like other folks, and they were heavy, and she washed her hands of air-raids; she accepted no responsibility for them; for her, within the flat, they did not exist, and the whole German war-machine was thereby foiled.  G.J. was on the point of a full explanation, but he checked himself.  A recital of the circumstances would not immediately help, and it might hinder.  Concealing his astonishment at the excesses of which unimaginative stolidity is capable, even in an Italian, he turned down the stairs again.

He stopped in the middle of the stairs, because he did not know what he was going to do, and he seemed to lack force for decisions.  No harm could have happened to Christine; she had run off, that was certain.  And yet—­had he not often heard of the impish tricks of explosions?  Of one person being taken and another left?  Was it not possible that Christine had been blown to the other end of the street, and was now lying there?...  No!  Either she was on her way home, or, automatically, she had scurried to the theatre, which was close to St. Martin’s Street, and been too fearful to venture forth again.  Perhaps she was looking somewhere for him.  Yet she might be dead.  In any case, what could he do?  Ring up the police?  It was too soon.  He decided that he would wait in Cork Street for half an hour.  This plan appealed to him for the mere reason that it was negative.

As he opened the front door he saw a taxi standing outside.  The taxi-man had taken one of the lamps from its bracket, and was looking into the interior of the cab, which was ornate with toy-curtains and artificial flowers to indicate to the world that he was an owner-driver and understood life.  Hearing the noise of the door, he turned his head—­he was wearing a bowler hat and a smart white muffler—­and said to G.J., with self-respecting respect for a gentleman: