They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved. To find the incentive! But how? Thither and yon the idea roved, seeking the way. “Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago.
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