But she expects you or me to pretend.

And I should be greatly relieved if you would do the pretending ?" "Certainly," murmured Mrs.Friend.
Lord Buntingford, looking at the terrace outside, made a sudden gesture--half despair, half impatience.
"Oh, and there's old Fenn,--my head gardener.

He's been here forty years, and he sits on me like an old man of the sea.

I know what he wants.

He's coming up to ask me about something he calls a herbaceous border.