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. Hope reared. “You vixen!” said Mr. Come in! Come in, do. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. “Bless you, sweetheart. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust.
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