‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. E. 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. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner.
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