So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. “I’m not that beautiful. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing.
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