“Oh, you know,” she said. A marriage in the house proved to be exciting but extremely disorganizing. 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. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. She knew blood was rushing to his face and other places as well. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell.
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