Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. “I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me.
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