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. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. With Bess's assistance he then climbed up to the window, which, as has just been stated, was secured by iron bars of great thickness crossed by a stout beam of oak. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. CHAPTER I.
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