Constance took him by the arm and led him towards the window of the dispensary. As she laid her hand on the edge of the glass door, to push it wide open, he shied violently to one side.
“No, no,” he said, “not in there. I don’t go into that room again.”
He spoke in little jerks, but already he was recovering himself. His eyes rested for a moment on his patent leather shoes.
“Dear me, what a state they are in,” he muttered.
Constance laid her hand again on his arm.
“Let us go to the rose garden, Mr. Deeling,” she suggested.
He moved a little to one side.
“I am quite capable of walking without assistance,” he answered, with a faint return to his formal manner, and without another word he moved past her and led the way across the terrace to where the garden showed crimson and white and
