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She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. It hit her just above the knee. The burden of decision had been transferred. . ‘Signed by a priest at Le Havre, so it must be true. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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