Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments. 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. So she approached him with sandwiches. A dissipated, loose-living man. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked.
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