rattled off, leaving Sofia just a trifle daunted and dubious, the animation
of her anticipations something dashed by the uncompromising respectability,
the self-conscious worthiness of Halfmoon Street.

Enfolded in the very heart of Mayfair, its brief length bounded on the
north by Curzon Street (its name alone sufficient voucher for its
character), on the south by Piccadilly (hereabouts somewhat oppressive with
its hedge of stately clubs, membership in any one of which is equivalent to
two years' unchallenged credit) Halfmoon Street is largely given over to
furnished lodgings. But it doesn't advertise the fact, its landlords are
apt to be retired butlers to the nobility and gentry, its lodgers English
gentlemen who have brought home livers from India, or assorted disabilities
from all known quarters of the globe, and who desire nothing better than to
lead steady-paced lives within walking distance of their favourite clubs.
So Halfmoon Street remains quietly estimable, a desirable address, and
knows it, and doggedly means to hold fast to that repute.

A strange environment (Sofia thought) for an adventurer like the Lone Wolf.

But then--of course!--Diantha's innuendoes had been based on flimsiest
hearsay. The chances were that Michael Lanyard was an utterly uninteresting
person of blameless life.

So thinking, the Princess Sofia was sensible of a pang of regret, and tried
to be prepared against bitter disappointment as she rang the bell. Either
she would fail to obtain admittance (perhaps the lady whom he was really
expecting had forestalled her) or else Lanyard would fail to come home in
time to catch her! Quite probably it would turn out to be a dull and
depressing evening, after all....