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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. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains. You shall know the truth. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. “Like a stab. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. He looked at her in some embarrassment.
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