” They left the restaurant just as the rain slowed to a dull trickle, the fury of the storm exhausted, having left mirror puddles in its wake. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. “She is marvellously clever,” he said. There you are! Girl spoilt for life. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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