At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. The decision had been sound. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. A dissipated, loose-living man. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant.
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