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‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. Tell me. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. 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. There were no mourners. Her thought spoke aloud. Chapter IX BRENDON’S LUCK Anna sat in a chair in her room and sighed.
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