An old woman took her in. No more scuffling. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald.
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