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. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. Lucy acted the part of savoring the end of the meal, but it was difficult. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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