"I'm singing at the Trianon. All the winter I was at the Petit Maxim."
"Those places," he said, with a look of distaste.
"It would take too long to explain to you why," she went on. "But you can't disapprove of my being there more than I do myself; and it's for that very reason that I want a visa for England."
"Of course you shall have one immediately. You're much better at home in these detestable times."
"But I also want something else. I want a passport for a friend—an English girl."
"Hasn't she got a passport? Does she want hers renewed?"
"I'd better tell you the whole story. I expect that since you've become the U.V.W.X.Y.Z. of Bucharest you've listened to plenty of sad stories, but you must pay special attention to this one for my sake. I don't know why I say 'for my sake'—it's rather an improper remark for a divorced wife. Philip, do you remember in my show at the Pierian an Improvisation about a girl who had been horribly ill treated as a child and was supposed to be lost in a great city?"
"Yes, I think I do; in fact, I'm sure I do. I remember that at the time I was reminded of our first meeting in Brompton Cemetery." He blinked once or twice very quickly, and coughed in his old embarrassed way.
"Well, that's the girl for whom I want a passport."
Sylvia told him Queenie's story in detail from the time she met her first in Granada to the present moment under the shadow of Zozo's return.