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“You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Our heads swim with the thought of being together.
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