She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Jack could hardly be accounted good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was one of the handsomest boys possible. Besides, she had admitted her identity. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. Drink the toast, Jack. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. I will do my utmost. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. On his way he made a slight divergence from the direct route and paused for a moment outside the flat where Anna was now living.
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