‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her.
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