He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Surely it was a dream. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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