He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity.
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