The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. Looking for something, or someone, probably. "Be it as you please," replied Winifred. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination.
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