Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration.
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