The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers

The door of a room on the ground floor was opened to us by a manservant. As we entered the rattle of a piano stopped, and a hot wave of mingled scent and cigar-smoke struck my nostrils. The first thing I noticed over Davies's shoulder, as he preceded me into the room, was a woman -- the source of the perfume I decided -- turning round from the piano as he passed it and staring him up and down with a disdainful familiarity that I at once hotly resented. She was in evening dress, pronounced in cut and colour; had a certain exuberant beauty, not wholly ascribable to nature, and a notable lack of breeding. Another glance showed me Dollmann putting down a liqueur glass of brandy, and rising from a low chair with something of a start; and another, von Brüning, lying back in a corner of a sofa, smoking; on the same sofa, vis-à-vis to him, was -- yes, of course it was -- Clara Dollmann; but how their surroundings alter people, I caught myself thinking. For the rest, I was aware that the room was furnished with ostentation, and was stuffy with stove-engendered warmth. Davies steered a straight course for Dollmann, and shook his hand with businesslike resolution. Then he tacked across to the sofa, abandoning me in the face of the enemy.

"Mr.