"Here is Berkeley Square."

"How wrong it is of these chauffeurs to drive so fast! It is almost as
bad as in Paris. They defy the law. I should like to have this man up."

He got out. She followed him, looking immensely tall in the dimness.

"I am not going back to the Cafe Royal," he said.

"But it will be amusing. And I think they are certainly expecting you."

"I am not going there."

She rang. Instantly the door was opened by the handsome middle-aged
butler.

"Then come in for a little while," she said casually. "Murgatroyd, you
might bring us up some tea and lemon, or will you have whisky and soda,
Mr. Craven?"

"I would much rather have tea and lemon, please," he said.

A great fire was burning in the hall. Again Craven felt that he was in
a more elegant London than the London of modern days. As he went up
the wide, calm staircase, and tasted the big silence of the house, he
thought of the packed crowd in the Cafe Royal, of the uproar there, of
the smoke wreaths, of the staring heterogeneous faces, of the shouting
or sullenly folded lips, of the--perhaps--tipsy man of genius, of
Jennings with his green eyes, his black beard, his tall ebony staff, of