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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. After class his routine was unchanged. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. And this is not France, you understand.
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