“I feel shabby and disgraced. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. 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. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy.
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