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. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. "I imagine I must have a hundred rolls—all the old fellows. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. It had been her home for hundreds of years. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “You have not feeling enough.
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