He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. “He has said something of the sort. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom.
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