Promise me one thing before I leave you. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. I knew it. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers.
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