Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. 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. ‘Well! I hadn’t no notion as he’d got hisself married again. You haven’t an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient.
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