"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. ” He looked at her intensely, his dark eyes deepened with sleeplessness. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Most of the boys did not possess the manners that he did. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said.
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