There was no other door in it, and Jack therefore struck into another entry which branched off to the right. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. But that possibility had been anticipated. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home.
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