They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. CHAPTER XI. Thames Darrell is—" "My husband nicknames him Thames," interrupted Mrs. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. 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. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered.
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