“How about a grill?”
“I don’t mind.”
“The Piccadilly? We’re both about got up for it.”
Miss Sinquier rolled her eyes.
“The Grill-room at the Piccadilly isn’t going to cure a headache,” she remarked.
X
TO watch Diana rise blurred above a damp chemise from a fifth-floor laundry garden in Foreign-Colony Street, Soho, had brought all Chelsea (and part of Paris) to study illusive atmospherical effects from the dizzy drying-ground of those versatile young men, Harold Weathercock and Noel Nice.
Like a necropolis at the Resurrection, or some moody vision of Blake, would it appear under the evanescent rays of the moon.
Nighties, as evening fell, would go off into proud Praxiteles—torsos of Nymphs or Muses: pants and ready-mades, at a hint of air would pirouette and execute a phantom ballet from Don John.