She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. I can never be grateful enough. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. As Spurlock called her name, she paused and turned.
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