Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation. She disengaged her hands and stood up. “It’s your birthday today, May Day. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. She swallowed hard.
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