He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. It looks so French to be affectionate. She did not know Mr. Kneebone's 346 XIV. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends.
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