She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. There you are, the best client’s chair.
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