She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. A lesson learned. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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