"I haven't the least idea where we are," she murmured.
"And I forgot to tell you," he laughed, as he helped her out. "I took the suite below mine by the week. There are two or three rooms, and an extra one for Beatrice. Of course, it's small, but then with this London idea before us—"
"Such extravagance!" she interrupted. "Your own rooms would have done quite nicely, only it is a luxury to have a place for Phoebe. I hope Beatrice won't have gone to bed."
"I am sure she won't," he replied. "She has done all the arranging for me—she and Phoebe together."
They crossed the pavement and entered the lift. The attendant grinned broadly as he stopped at the eighth floor, and held out his hand for the tip for which Philip had been fumbling. The door of the suite was opened before they could reach the bell. Elizabeth's maid, Phoebe, came forward to take her mistress' cloak, and the floor valet was there to relieve Philip of his overcoat. A waiter was hovering in the background.
"Supper is served in the dining room, sir," he announced. "Shall I open the wine?"
Philip nodded and showed Elizabeth over the little flat, finally ushering her into the small, round dining room.
"It's perfectly delightful," she declared, "but we don't need nearly so much room, Philip. What a dear little dining table and what a delicious supper! Everything I like best in the world, from pâté de foie gras to cold asparagus. You are a dear."
The waiter disappeared with a little bow. They
