"Expensive? Rather. You cannot get diggings in Regent Street for a
song." Tweed rose, threw up the window, sat down again, and added,
"Especially over a jeweller's shop. They are so careful. There is
nothing but a plank, my dear Boris, between us and thousands of pounds'
worth of glittering things."
"It is very nice here," said Boris Stefanovitch, looking across to the
Quadrant with wistful, melancholy eyes.
"'Twill serve. They are not bad for bachelors' quarters. My only fear is
that one day I may get my head into the matrimonial noose. Do not laugh;
it is too serious. There are many who feel in the same way. We are
determined not to marry. We build a hedge, and dig a trench, and raise a
tower; but--but----" Tweed shrugged his shoulders. "Halloa, it is
beginning to snow," he added, abruptly. "Do you feel cold? I will close
the window."
"Pray do not. I had an idea that it never snowed in England. This wind
is most refreshing."
"I am glad you think so," said Tweed, pushing back his chair as a rush
of raw air swept into the apartment. "No doubt a cutting blast like this
is a summer breeze to you after your----" He pulled himself up suddenly.
That was a subject that he never cared to be the first to open.
There was the rattle of descending iron shutters. They were closing the
shop on the ground floor. The white flakes were driving by in dizzying
confusion. Almost every cab had an occupant. A hushed roar told of the
traffic at Piccadilly Circus.