Her heart thudded. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. ‘Ah, the tragedy. My late husband, I mean. You have actually given up a dinner-party to dine alone with me.
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