There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. But he knew. She had decided that she would spend the next morning answering advertisements in the papers that abounded in the writing-room; and so, after half an hour’s perusal of back numbers of the Sketch in the drawingroom, she had gone to bed. “Well, because I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. You foolish girl!” Ann Veronica took that in silence.
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