Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. He waited. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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