“Yes!”
“Past the Cafe Monico and—Piccadilly Circus?”
“Yes!”
“What time was it?”
“Well after ten.”
“Very unsuitable! I must say that—very unsuitable! That corner by the Monico at night is simply chock-a-block—I—I should say, teems, that’s the word—teems with people whom nobody knows or could ever wish to know. Beryl Van Tuyn should really be more careful. She grows quite reckless. And Adela Sellingworth is so tall and unmistakable. I do hope nobody saw her.”
“I’m afraid scores of people did!”
“No, no! I mean people she knows—women especially.”
“I don’t think she would care.”
“Her friends would care for her!” retorted Braybrooke, almost severely. “To retire from life is all very well. I confess I think it a mistake. But that is merely one man’s opinion. But to retire from life, a great life such as hers was, and then after ten years to burst forth into—into the type of existence represented by Shaftesbury Avenue and the Cafe Royal, that would be unheard of, and really almost unforgivable.”