Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means.
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