He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. 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. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. ‘Maybe not,’ Gerald conceded, ‘but I’m damned if I herald my approach with a lot of unnecessary blundering about in the dark. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. ” “Maybe I should stay away.
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