‘No! Certainly not!…What was said?’
Mark Tietjens was leaning forward over the kerb in front of the green–stained shelter, like a child over a brook–side. He was obviously waiting, quite patient, swinging his umbrella by the hook. He appeared to have no other means of self–expression. The girl was saying that when she had rung up Christopher that morning a voice had said, without any preparation at all: the girl repeated, without any preparation at all:
‘You’d better keep off the grass if you’re the Wannop girl. Mrs Duchemin is my husband’s mistress already. You keep off!’
Christopher said:
‘She said that, did she?’ He was wondering how Mark kept his balance, really. The girl said nothing more. She was waiting. With an insistence that seemed to draw him: a sort of sucking in of his per
