The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good.
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