At the top of Saint James’s Street, they came to a stop and Bill remarked: “I get off here.”
Miss Du Rance looked a trifle disappointed.
“Goin’ into my pothouse to play a game at snooker. Into that funny old box, yonder, with the bow window.” Bill’s hand indicated Ward’s Club just opposite.
Somehow, yet without saying so, little Miss Du Rance, the quaint and charming American, was able to convey that to her mind for such an upstanding young fellow to spend a fair spring evening in that way was a pity.
“Daresay she’s right,” mused Bill. A bit of a thought reader, Bill.
“I’m going as far as the Circus,” said the droll minx.
It really was such a fine evening that Bill suddenly decided that he might walk as far as the Circus for the good of his health.
When the young man had been steered in safety past the dangerous corner, the ply of questions began again.
Did he like living in London? What was his favourite flower? Did he care for jazz music? Who was his favourite author? Wasn’t it just a bore to be a blood-peer? Did he like fishing better than gunning? Or did he like gunning better than fishing? He played polo of course? How did he like the Prince of Wales? What did he think of soldiering? By the way, what was the name of his regiment? She had heard, but had forgotten.
“The Pinks.”