She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. “I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. I will be very well without him. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church. ‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy.
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