An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. “I do mean that,” she declared. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. Lucy thought of herself as belonging to Sebastian whether she liked it or not. 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. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. .
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