The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. “Yes?” he said. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters.
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