Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Michelle bypassed the ordering counter and surfed directly to their table. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. She knew she was a monster and so did they. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably.
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