She could feel her face turning beet red. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. "Look here," cried Jonathan, stooping down and taking hold of a ring in the floor, with which by a great effort he raised up a flag. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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