If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Moments, indeed! We like each other fresh and fresh. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. That’s the fact about them.
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