"I'm sure I should. There is something so alluring about Bolshevism when
it's safely tucked up at the Cafe Royal. But I will only walk to the
door."

"And then Mr. Craven will get you a taxi," said Miss Van Tuyn. "Shall we
go?"

They fared forth into the London night--Craven last.

He realized that Miss Van Tuyn had made up her mind to keep both him
and Jennings as her possessions of the evening, and to send Lady
Sellingworth, if she would go home early, back to Berkeley Square
without an escort. Her cult for her friend, though doubtless genuine,
evidently weakened when there was any question of the allegiance of men.
Craven made up his mind that he would not leave Lady Sellingworth until
they were at the door of Number 18A, Berkeley Square.

In the street he found himself by the side of Miss Van Tuyn, behind Lady
Sellingworth and Ambrose Jennings, who were really a living caricature
as they proceeded through the night towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The
smallness of Jennings, accentuated by his bat-like cloth cloak, his
ample sombrero and fantastically long stick, made Lady Sellingworth look
like a moving tower as she walked at his side, like a leaning tower when
she bent graciously to catch the murmur of his persistent conversation.
And as over the theatres in letters of fire were written the names
of the stars in the London firmament--Marie Lohr, Moscovitch, Elsie
Janis--so over, all over, Lady Sellingworth seemed to be written for
Craven to read: "I am really not a Bohemian."