” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. Quilt was not long in following his example. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come out. He HAD followed her! What had he followed her for? He must have followed her all the way from beyond Grosvenor Square. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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