The TypewriterW
hile I was lying only half awake in my charming bedroom next morning, suddenly the thought came to me like a cold hand laid on my breast: Here I am in Nick Van Tassel's house, completely at his mercy! I am lucky to wake up at all!
I sprang out of bed to drive it away, and went to the window. It was my first sight of the place by daylight. I had a view to the west over the polo field and race track, with the uplands beyond. Nick's “farm,” of course, was only a farm by courtesy; sporting headquarters would have been a better name for it. It was a lovely day, and the whole scene was gilded with sunshine.
I breakfasted with Mme. Storey in her Japanese sitting room while it was still early—that is to say, early for the Dump, where breakfast frequently merged into lunch. After
