For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. . 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. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. . ’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly.
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