VIII
“Julia!” came Tay’s voice over the telephone. “We are in adjoining hotels! I never felt so truly wicked in my life! How do you feel?”
“Cold. My stove won’t warm up.”
“Mine looks like a polar bear on end. I expect it to open its jaws and devour me. Wish it would if what you English chastely call its inside is warmer than its out. I’ve just had an exhilarating supper of cold ham, beer, and double-barrelled crusts, which appear to be a staple. I suppose you have had precisely the same, as this is Germany and the hour 11.30 P.M.”
“Yes, and I’m going to bed this minute and forget it. Good night.”
“One minute. To-morrow morning?”
“Hadn’t we better wait till the Darks arrive?”
“Not much! Do you think I’m going to moon about a strange town by my lonesome? If we could travel together —”
“There are so many English people in Munich, and I am in the position of Cæsar’s wife at present —”
“Don’t dare to mention the word—the fatal word. Now, expect me to-morrow morning at nine-thirty. If you are not downstairs on the minute, I’ll send a procession of bell-boys up to your room until the hotel is ringing with the scandal.”