house for a goodish while.
“Whatever are you doing in these parts, Bertie? I thought you never came east of Leicester Square.”
“I’ve come to deliver an article of sorts which my Aunt Dahlia asked me to write. She edits a species of journal up those stairs. Milady’s Boudoir .”
“What a coincidence! I have just promised to write an article for her, too.”
“Don’t you do it,” I said, earnestly. “You’ve simply no notion what a ghastly labour—Oh, but, of course, I was forgetting. You’re used to it, what?”
Silly of me to have talked like that. Young Bingo Little, if you remember, had married the famous female novelist, Rosie M. Banks, author of some