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Her hair was held back in a filigreed barrette. McClintock liked it. 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. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. “I propose,” Sir John said, “that we pay for our dinner—which we haven’t had— tip the garçon a sovereign, and take a cab to the Ritz. To remove this obstacle it was necessary make an extensive breach in the wall.
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