The girl nodded sagely. When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding.
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