This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. 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. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Wood in the deepest mourning. It is so difficult.
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