Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. ‘You imbecile. Madame Valade was looking heartily bored, he noted, as his searching eyes found out the couple.
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