She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. “See you. I love some one else. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. I’ve had a headache all day. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. Let me see now. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. 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. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said.
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