She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. One doesn’t want to lose a grain. I think John 42 will be there.
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