It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. " "Infernally provoking!" echoed Langley. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. ” He chuckled, wincing at the thought.
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