"Good references. Anybody can find good references. Did your brother never tell you about the Prime Minister's butler? He came from an Archbishop."
"Is there anything you advise me to do?"
"Be ordinary. Absolutely ordinary. I shall stay in Tormouth at present. I'm at the Bristol."
So he left Miss Lomas rather ruffled, but under that deeply gratified, because her case really was a serious case, her acumen was vindicated, her brother put to shame. Her school found her more masterful than ever.
Reggie's room at the Bristol had a balcony which looked on the sea. There he sat before an empty plate which had held muffins, and lit one of his largest cigars. "Now where the devil have I seen that little minx before?" said he.
Upon that question he concentrated his mind, and (omitting the adventures into blind alleys) his thoughts were like this: "Typewriting . . . why does sweet Alice suggest typewriting? . . . mes petites munches de satinette . . . my little satinette sleeves . . . now what in wonder is that? . . . Oh, my aunt! She was the demure little typist in that play at the Variétés last year. What was her name? Alice Ducher! . . . Oh, Peter! A soubrette from the Variétés in a blameless English girls' school! Ye stately homes of England! Give me air!"
