He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. “No. “I should like you to come here,” she said. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved.
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