than anyone else when you are invited to call on a duke in Mount Street."
That might be true, or it might not, but sore and rebellious as she was, she was strongly inclined to dispute the verdict. After all, her feeling went infinitely deeper. It was futile, however, to analyze it now. This was not the place nor was there present opportunity. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was one o'clock.
The watch on her wrist was as hostile as everything else in her little world just now. Even one o'clock had a sharp sting of its own. "Don't be late for lunch," had been Milly's parting words. "Charley Cheesewright is coming. And he's dying to meet you."
She managed to navigate the vortex of Knightsbridge without knowing that she did so; and then, all at once, she realized that she was within twenty yards of Victoria Mansions, and that a rather overdressed young man was a few yards ahead.
With a feeling akin to nausea she pulled up in time to watch this short, squat figure disappear within the precincts of Number Five. For a reason she couldn't explain she was quite sure that this was none other than Mr. Charles Cheesewright. She didn't know him; if a back view meant anything she had no wish to know him; certainly she had no desire to make his acquaintance going up in the lift.
She hung back a discreet three minutes on the pavement of Broad Place before daring to enter the vestibule of Number Five, Victoria Mansions. By then the coast was clear; Mr. Charles Cheesewright, apparently, had gone up in the Otis elevator. And she stood on the
