Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. But it sounds too real to be imagined. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. .
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