‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. 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. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. ‘Come,’ she called. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it.
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