I couldn’t help the thought. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. They poisoned the system with lead and exploded half the time on the other side. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers.
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