“What is this joint?” she was demanding heatedly. “A loony-bin? Has everybody gone crazy? First I meet Spink-Bottle racing along the corridor like a mustang. Then you try to walk through me as if I were thistledown. And now the gentleman in the burnous has started tickling my ankle — a thing that hasn’t happened to me since the York and Ainsty Hunt Ball of the year nineteen-twenty-one.”
