Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. How did you get your luggage out of the house? Wasn’t it—wasn’t it rather in some respects—rather a lark? It’s one of my regrets for my lost youth. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words.
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