The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “That is as you will,” she said. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee.
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