“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. ‘Eh bien. Capes kept obstinately stiff, and spoke between his teeth. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. “I will believe you. A friend of mine, Ogilvy’—I suppose that’s Ogilvy & Ogilvy, who do so many divorces, Vee?—‘was speaking very highly of it—very highly!’” He smiled into her eyes. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed.
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