CHAPTER XXVIWhen Jean thought of Tunbridge Wells, she saw it always in terms of gravel, very smooth, very golden gravel, meticulously combed and raked as it was combed and raked at Rockland Lodge. Thousands of large solid houses rested upon this soil; curving sweeps of gravel ran up to identically majestic front doors. The rusty bracken on the commons echoed the golden soil, and the inhabitants themselves had the clean, hard consistency of gravel.
Lady Margaret's house was a solid yellowish slab of stuccoed brick, set at the end of an avenue of cold pink rhododendrons.
A monkey-tree broke the lawn like an oath, and a group of copper beeches had a meretricious air, as if they had been transported direct from pots.
Everything had been done to make Rocklands look like a country house, but
