‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. I loathe this room. I was bawling so hard that the Nurse took pity on me and slipped me two Children’s Tylenol. 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. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it.
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