At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. “Thank you. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. Here are all our harlequins and columbines of the spoken and written drama. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. “I didn’t understand, Vee. I don’t think you understand.
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