Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. All her life Martha had been there. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. ’ ‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond.
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