He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. I don't know anything about you. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay.
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