I hope this is all. The day is already half over. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. She was, she guessed, close to the library. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Bête, she told herself fiercely. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses.
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