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. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. Perhaps in two or three weeks. ‘It is nothing. . “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door.
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