"The Thames?" he said. "I know a river worth two of that. . . ."
"A river that's worth two of the Thames must be the river of Paradise."
"So it is," he assured her, "and probably the Thames is infested by your relations. For a serious and secret conference such as we propose to ourselves there is no place like the Medway."
She had thought the Medway to be nothing but mud and barges, and said so.
"Ah, that's below Maidstone. Above— But you'll see. Wear a shady hat and bring that conspirator-looking cloak you wore last night—the fine weather can't possibly last forever. Twenty minutes for breakfast, half an hour for a complete river toilette, and we catch the ten-seventeen from Cannon Street, easily."
"I haven't a complete river toilette. And you? I thought you left all your possessions at the Five Bells—"
"I am not the homeless orphan you deem me," he said, accepting kidneys and bacon from a sleepy waiter. "I have a home, though a humble one, and, what's more, it's just around the corner—Montague Street, to be exact. Next door to the British Museum. So central, is it not? Some inward monitor whispered to me, 'She will want to go on the river,' and I laid out the complete boating-man's costume, down to white shoes with new laces."
"Did you really think I should think of the river? How clever of you."
"I am clever," he said, modestly, "and good. It is better to be good than clever. That is why I cannot conceal from you that I never thought of the river till you spoke about it. But I really have some flannels, little as you may think it, and we'll stop and get some boating-shoes for you, if you want them. Only you'll have to buy them with lightning speed and change them at Yalding."