‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself.
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