‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. 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. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. ” He would say every time she wore it. When I think of it—” “But these are things I want to tell you now!” “I made a little song of it. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage.
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