"I wanted you to know. He would go there. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. The audience clapped more heartily. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head.
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