She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. 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. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes.
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