The whole incident was so unexpected that neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. 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. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you.
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