‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. I'm no mollycoddle. She held out the foil. “He naturally does not wish for connexions which are—I do not wish to hurt you feelings, Anna, but I must say it—not altogether desirable. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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