Her thoughts took words for themselves. 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. Manning,” she said, “I warned you not to idealize me. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. When she entered the office a strange scene was presented to her startled gaze. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. Who walked you home?\" Mike asked her, his voice tinged with jealousy, as she passed the garlic bread. .
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