“There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. There was a young lad ahead of her. 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. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it. I need only just jump up and throw myself upon you. I know exactly what I am doing.
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