'Army' is _longing_ to know her." ('Army' didn't look it.) "Now pettums! Wave handikins to Uncle David.

He's goin' broadies.

'Army' dear, would you ask them to whistle for a taxi?
I know David doesn't want to walk all the way back to the Temple in those lovely button boots." Praed told him all he wanted to know about the localities of the Warren Private Hotels; most of all, that at which Vivie's mother resided in the Rue Royale, Brussels.
So at this establishment a well but plainly dressed English lady, scarcely looking her age (thirty-four) turned up one morning, and sent in a card to the lady-proprietress, Mme.Varennes.This card was closely scanned by a heavy-featured Flemish girl who took it upstairs to an _appartement_ on the first floor.

She read: _Miss Vivien Warren_ and vaguely noted the resemblance of the two names Varennes and Warren, and the fact that the establishment in which she earned a lucrative wage was one of the "Warren" Hotels.
With very short delay, Vivie was invited to ascend in a lift to the first floor and was shown in to a gorgeously furnished bedroom which, through an open door, gave a glimpse of an attractive boudoir or sitting-room beyond, and beyond that again the plane trees of a great boulevard breaking into delicate green leaf.

A woman of painted middle age in a _descente de lit_ that in its opulence matched the hangings and furniture of the room, had been reclining on a sofa, drinking chocolate and reading a newspaper.