“It was,” she admitted. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. I am not French in the least. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly.
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