Bond went down and, after careful consideration, decided that schnapps would go with his beer and ordered a double Steinhlger. Marc-Ange's face was serious. 'Now listen, James. We have not had a proper talk. It is very wrong. I am about to become your father-in-law and I insist. Many months ago, I made you a serious offer. You declined it. But now you have accepted it. What is the name of your bank?'
'Davy! come here!' and looked at mine.
This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, the more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in those transports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and looked confused and out of sorts.
'Oh, I'll do that all right,' said Bond reassuringly. 'Now, be a good girl and get a radio taxi to the Universal Export entrance. And put all that junk inside it, would you? I'll be down in a minute. I'll be at the flat all this evening' - he smiled sourly - 'packing my silk shirts with the crests on them.' He got up. 'So long, Mary. Or rather goodnight, Goodnight. And keep out of trouble till I get back.'
A little later, in the letter describing this favourite idea, she adds: 鈥楴ow we come to my yellow girdle, studded with gems. This is composed of dear ones in Old England; my own Laura being the Pearl nearest the heart.鈥橖br>
When he spoke, my heart leaped. He was English! "I'm sorry. I've got a puncture." (An American would have said "a flat.") "And I saw the VACANCY sign. Can I have a room for the night?" Now he looked at me with curiosity, seeing that something was wrong.
She shook her head.
Mr Springer had the glazed eyes of someone who is either very rich or very dead. The eyes were pale blue opaque glass marbles which briefly recognized Bond and then turned inwards again in complete absorption with self. The rest of Mr Springer was a 'man of distinction' - casually pin-striped, Hathaway-shirted, Aqua-Velva'd. He gave the impression of someone who found himself in the wrong company - a first-class ticket holder in a third-class compartment, a man from the stalls who has been shown by mistake to a seat in the pit.