The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. “How do you feel?” she asked. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. I wrenched this off, and in an envelope addressed to me in faded ink, I found the locket and the pearls. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. ‘I don’t propose doing anything with you. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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