” The figure of her aunt, a little distant, a little propitiatory, behind the coffee things, filled her with a sense of almost catastrophic adventure. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. We are off for a second honeymoon. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. But if you have considerable money, you had better leave it in the office safe. There was absolute quiet. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. She turned there and beckoned. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. She shook them off of one foot.
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