Collins, you can go now. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. 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. You will have to tell me. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her. .
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