All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. In rushed Mr. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. He turned just in time to see Lucilla exchange an amused look with Hilary. 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.
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