When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them. She had but to choose. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. “And where are YOU going?” he said. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. Something, I'm convinced, has happened to the boys. I go back about once a year. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally.
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