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. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. The burden of decision had been transferred. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety. Jonathan had to feel his way. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. "Sir Rowland must be gone.
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