The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. The man pulled up. We men are like children. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. Later in the evening she heard him whistling, poor man! She felt very restless and excited.
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