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She slipped silently inside the door as he went inside a 12 putrid little bathroom to urinate. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. You Ann Veronica?” “Rather! I say—did you marry Gwen?” “Yes. They thought that she was her own mother. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. CHAPTER XX.
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