And he was content to stand aside, as often before, and watch his wife's audacities with admiration not untinged with irony.
She took a tiny house in Holywell for herself and her husband, set out to raise money with which to buy the site in Coombe-in-the-Cliff, and sat down in earnest to work out the scheme in co-operation with the inspirer of it.
Her visits to Old Town to consult Mr. Trupp were almost daily. In fine weather she would walk across the Golf Links; and when the turf was like a soaped sponge she would go round by the road through Beech-hangar.
Here one bitter April afternoon she marked a tall bowed old man walking dreamily under the beech-trees, the light falling through the fine net-work of twigs on his uplifted face. His hands were behind him, and he wore an old-fashioned roomy tail-coat.
Mrs. Lewknor's swift feminine eyes took him in at a glance.
He was a gentleman; he lived out of the world; and there was somebody at home who cared for him: for it was clear that he was not the kind of man who would care for himself.
As she drew near, she glanced away, and yet confirmed her impression with that trick of the well-bred woman who somehow sees without looking.
Then, as she passed him, a wave of recognition overwhelmed her, and she stopped suddenly.
"Mr. Edward Caspar!" she cried.
He, too, had half turned.