Lunch at the Turrets, except during weekends, was an informal meal served in a small room next to Miss Cambric’s office connected with the kitchens by a lift shaft from which the food appeared, announced by a speaking-tube whistle. Lottie, in tweeds and blue tinted glasses, presided and her guests made no pretense of belonging to another century. It was not an occasion which called for her theatrical gifts as a hostess.
L.C. Corkran, precise but a trifle peevish, sat on her left whilst Mr. Campion occupied the third chair.
“This place is in a state of siege,” she announced. “The Upper Sixth from St. Brazils’—fifteen of the ugliest girls I’ve ever set eyes on—had the greatest difficulty in getting through the police barrier this morning, and the tradesmen are complaining that their vans a
