She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her. Unless they remind him now and then not to. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. . ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad.
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