“I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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