They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat. 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. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city.
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