The guards, horse and foot, and constables formed a wide circle round it to keep off the mob. It was a look that accorded very well with the hayloft setting that had come to mind. Charley Pevenill was our host. Without a word, the general reached out and took them, but his glance searched the girl’s face. 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. “Tell me,” he said; “speak to me. .
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