“What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. 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. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. He was wearing a new silk hat, with a slightly more generous brim than its predecessor, and it suited his type of face, robbed his dark eyes a little of their aggressiveness and gave him a solid and dignified and benevolent air. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque.
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