There was Regent’s Park. He did not want to be bothered (feeling a little drowsy as he did) by people asking him the time. An elderly grey nurse, with a baby asleep in its perambulator-that was the best he could do for himself; sit down at the far end of the seat by that nurse.

She’s a queer-looking girl, he thought, suddenly remembering Elizabeth as she came into the room and stood by her mother. Grown big; quite grown-up, not exactly pretty; handsome rather; and she can’t be more than eighteen. Probably she doesn’t get on with Clarissa. "There’s my Elizabeth"- that sort of thing-why not "Here’s Elizabeth" simply? -- trying to make out, like most mothers, that things are what they’re not. She trusts to her charm too much, he thought. She overdoes it.