The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. “You are late,” she murmured. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. ‘Hilary, you must stop referring to mademoiselle as “she”. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican.
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