The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. There you are, the best client’s chair. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. I didn't understand then, but I do now. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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