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. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. They talked across their meal in an easy and friendly manner about Ann Veronica’s affairs. Sheppard," said Wood in a soothing tone. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair.
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