They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill. She could not help herself. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead.
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