“Rummy lot we are!” said Roddy. Gregory B. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist.
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