Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. But machinery will never approach the hand. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again.
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