“It is from his brother in Paris. Wood. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence. But it doesn’t alter the situation. Hope reared.
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