” Lucy reflected. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Paul's are his work. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. An ancient smile lay on his lips.
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