Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.
“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it instead.”
Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they had to make money, they would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being not at all desirous of too extensive a clientèle, they were immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a household word. It had become a synonym for ‘de luxe.’
The window was admirably dressed.
Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library. Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb, covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze, bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink. There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more important, an open book. Who passed might read.
A CHEVIOT ROOM
THAT IS TO SAY,
A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO
THE ADVICE OF