“Mere sensuality. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Of you—an angel with one wing. In a moment they were in the street outside. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. “No reason. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before.
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