She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. “My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. I expect company.
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