Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Not much. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. ‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said.
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