The water closet was of mahogany and porcelain, the faucets solid brass, the towels of satin damask. Annie, mother naked, was washing herself out with a rubber douche. Fenton was most particular about using French letters, but tonight he’d been too full, too lazy to use one. In fact, Annie had manoeuvred this state of affairs, pretending an urgency of desire she did not at all feel. She had her scheme well planned and it needed to be plausible. In two or three weeks she would approach him with anxious sighs, a tear unbidden. Then a little later, a frightened confirmation. If necessary she was quite prepared to escalate to hysterical scenes. She knew there was no chance of Fenton marrying her. He was a man of high aspirations. Next year he intended to run for alderman, and however cunt-struck he might be presently she doubted he could be pushed into such an unsuitable marriage. She’d read in the News that he had been paying court to the young daughter of one of his partners. So much the better.
