“But where is the Post Office?” he asked, and, turning on their tracks, David led his friend in a silence that was too deep for words to what he sought. Gaveston looked up with delight at its grim Gothic facade as they passed through its portal. What a city! Even the post offices here were beautiful, he reflected, and dim.
Without hesitation he demanded a telegraph form, and wrote:
Lady Penhaligon 99 Half Moon Street Mayfair. The Spires are still dreaming Gav.
He handed it to the girl. She glanced askance at the clock.
“It’s the last telegram we’re taking to-night,” she said.
“And the most beautiful, is it not?” added Gav, while she ticked over the jewelled words with her lamentably workaday pencil.
“Twelve,” she murmured with the most engaging of lisps. “That will be a shilling.”
“Oh, Half Moon without a hyphen, please,” corrected Gaveston beseechingly.
“But that’ll make it one and a penny,” she looked up with surprise.