A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room.
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