He saw that she was tense. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. It is so ridiculous. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky.
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