“My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. I can’t. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. 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. He never finished his sentence. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. How could she tell him what indeed already began to puzzle herself, why she had borrowed that money at all? The plain fact was that she had grabbed a bait.
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