" The Wastrel rushed. “I think she would,” she decided. To—to find myself. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. In fact, Gerald had given order to the coachman to drive out of Golden Square and then stop around the corner. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme.
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