I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. Killed is too kind a word.
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