The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. ToC Tyburn was now at hand. 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. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured.
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