The phone did not ring. Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary's carelessness. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. "What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone. She thought she had hidden well from him.
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