The Wastrel did not relish this. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. But it was only six-thirty. I ought to have gone long ago. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.
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