"I think the natives saw you coming out of the lagoon, one dawn. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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