Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. ’ Hilary’s gaze was raking the room. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. ’ She had given nothing away.
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