XLI. — THE VISIT
Frankl's Bank was scanning the agents' yacht-lists for her, when Sir Moses Cohen, who was closely associated with Frankl, placed his own three-master at her disposal; and she set out from Bristol, with her being three Jewish ladies, Frankl's manager, and a snuffy Portuguese rabbi who resembled a Rembrandt portrait.
It was late at night, and Hogarth, who had lately acquired a passion for those Mathematics which touch upon Mysticism, was bent over Quaternions and the quirks of [Proofers note: checkmark symbol] (—i) in an alcove of his Boodah suite hardly fourteen feet square, cosy, rosy, and homely: he sitting at a sofa-head, and, lying on the sofa, Loveday, his head on Hogarth's thigh, escaped from office and frockcoat, in happy shirt-sleeves, between sleeping and waking.
Hogarth was interrupted by a telephone bell.
“Well?” he answered.
“My Lord King”, from Quilter-Beckett, “Frankl has handed to his warder something written: will your Lordship's Majesty see it now?”
“Yes!” Then: “John! Frankl has yielded!”
Up Loveday started with “Thank God!” while Hogarth: “When does my yacht arrive?”