She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know. There are two ways to go in, you understand. Say I’m out, away, anything!” “I am sorry, sir,” the man answered, “but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously.
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