She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Gerald realised Lucy had taken the hint, for she dragged her betrothed towards the door. She looked at him gravely and squinted. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world.
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