Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She drew a long breath. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. After all, old P. The door leaned inward. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor.
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