She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. She looked down at him and was amazed to see him erect again, amazed at the incredible virility that he possessed.
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