Ruth met him in the hall as he was following his family into the dining room. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. ” “Where?” He asked. 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. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know. She broke a cobblestone over his head and he was out. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “You have the ideas.
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