“My hand! This isn’t the place. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. But I have never seen America. 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. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. Ann Veronica liked their relationship all the more because it was an unusual one.
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