What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. He did not particularly care.
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