There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy.
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