“I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. She would then partially recall the items that she had heard about him, presenting each at the angle that was the most likely to inflict pain. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual.
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