He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic idea that it contained a tip. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. “It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it.
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