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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. She asked no further questions for the moment. His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. “I couldn’t help it. ’ ‘But what age are you? Do you not require an heir?’ Melusine asked, her tone shocked. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. I don’t mind it. Sometimes I try to talk. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. And what took you to Remenham House?’ ‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. .
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