” She turned herself to one side and propped her head in her hand. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. 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. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible.
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