” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. 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. I will not be persecuted in this way by you. It will take a month to clean up. But we were both pledged to secrecy, and I couldn’t reveal my part for fear that I would lose my place. It’s my choice, Lucy. He wisely refrained from questioning the manager of the Victoria.
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