’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Yet her embarrassment was only a passing thing. “Have to go now.
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