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And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. "Ah!" exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. “I am sure that you are. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. ” “Do you think that it was wise of you, or kind to come?” she asked quietly. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Manning, and glanced round hastily for further horticultural points of interest in secluded corners. ” “Then perhaps,” she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, “perhaps I really do not care. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. "Take him to the bilbowes.
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