” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you.
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