There was, it might be said, a double illumination. It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. He suspected a trap. You see—I didn’t understand. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Never mind. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off.
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