‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. If she’s over, he probably knows all about it. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. 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. They had both been unsuccessful. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage.
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