Stanley poured wine. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. And Mother trusted him. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. Do sit down, dear boy. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. Dinner was served at 5:30. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz.
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