He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. Afterwards we started for déjeuner in a motor. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “I will send you a copy,” Mr.
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