Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. 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. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Spurling; Austin had never quitted his post. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. This way, Sir Rowland.
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