He wandered westwards, past the Berkeley. The commissionaire at the restaurant doors saluted him. Hugo liked that, and always rather sought it. Tarlyon was of opinion that the commissionaire probably mistook him for some one who had once tipped him, but Hugo said that that was not the point, while to be saluted by commissionaires on Piccadilly was a thing that happened only to very few people.
IV
At last, very thoughtfully, he came to the house in Audley Square. As he rang, a clock struck one and gave him an idea.
“I will ask her to luncheon at Claridge’s,” he thought. “It will be a good opening.”
Major Cypress waited in the drawing-room for quite a long time. He paced about. The floor was of parquet, mostly uncovered, and so his feet made a noise. He sat down.
“You again!” cried Shirley.
“How are you, Shirley?”
“I refuse to tell you, Hugo. I am tired of telling you. Don’t I look well?”
“Hum,” said Hugo. He could never answer questions like that.
Shirley came near. She was in a sort of bronze dress of crêpe marocain, and her throat glowed very white. Her face Major Cypress did not actually look at, it tempted him so exceedingly. Shirley smiled.