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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. ‘Lord in heaven, did I do that?’ exclaimed Gerald remorsefully. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. CHAPTER VII The astonishing collapse of Spurlock created a tableau of short duration. But his daughter might well have a claim. 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. “It was the night you left Paris. Stanley being bored and feeling limited. Sir John hesitated.
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