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. Fire; she was full of it. A maidservant held the front door open. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was.
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