Elizabeth sat up presently, a little dazed. Her fingers were still
gripping Philip's almost fiercely. The automobile had stopped.

"I haven't the least idea where we are," she murmured.

"And I forgot to tell you," he laughed, as he helped her out. "I took the
suite below mine by the week. There are two or three rooms, and an
extra one for Beatrice. Of course, it's small, but then with this London
idea before us--"

"Such extravagance!" she interrupted. "Your own rooms would have done
quite nicely, only it is a luxury to have a place for Phoebe. I hope
Beatrice won't have gone to bed."

"I am sure she won't," he replied. "She has done all the arranging for
me--she and Phoebe together."

They crossed the pavement and entered the lift. The attendant grinned
broadly as he stopped at the eighth floor, and held out his hand for the
tip for which Philip had been fumbling. The door of the suite was opened
before they could reach the bell. Elizabeth's maid, Phoebe, came forward
to take her mistress' cloak, and the floor valet was there to relieve
Philip of his overcoat. A waiter was hovering in the background.

"Supper is served in the dining room, sir," he announced. "Shall I open
the wine?"

Philip nodded and showed Elizabeth over the little flat, finally ushering
her into the small, round dining room.