“That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. The Times slipped from his fingers. To the point however. Her efforts were vain. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I'll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement.
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