He made her tell him the core of the difficulty. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. “I should like to understand you,” he said. ‘Stay, Saling!’ The butler halted, looking round enquiringly. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded.
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