Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. Stay! I'll go myself.
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