“And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. He dared not go on. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings.
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