The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. I took the usual way home. ‘If he needed sanctuary, it raises grave doubts about his activities. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. If I told you the facts, I expect, since you are in love with me, you’d explain the whole business as being very fine and honorable for me—the Higher Morality, or something of that sort.
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