‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. We went our ways. Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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