I was grounded for the last two weeks. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Oh God! my limbs fail me.
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