The afternoon had passed now into twilight. ” She stopped short. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. But the Ramage affair needed clearing up, of course; it was a flaw upon that project. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed. 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. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back.
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