’ Gerald seized on this. We were only—les autres. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. She stared at his pleading face. 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. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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