porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert” was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.

“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”

As the carriage passed, “Cissie's” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.

“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.