The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off. "You are giving that chap the boot rather suddenly?" "Had to. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.
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