Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage.
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