‘I’m not sure I shall forgive you,’ said Alice radiantly.�Mr Keeling ceased to address the larch-trees that were the sponsors of his house’s name, and turned round.
�‘Certainly it is not Miss Julia Fyson,’ he exclaimed, in great dismay. For the moment his chronic fatuous complacency in the possession of his habitual adorers quite faded from his mind. They were intended to adore him tenderly, reverentially, fervently, but not to make proposals of marriage to him. He really did not care if he never put his arm round Julia Fyson’s waist again.�