A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. I went with him to what I supposed to be the British Embassy, and went through a ceremony which I understood to be the usual form of the marriage one used there.
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