English fiction -- 20th century; Husband and wife -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Short stories, English
“Suggests that I come to Biarritz. By way of inducement she adds: _The
bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the
War, and all that sort of wash._”
Mentally, Fairfax consigned Lady Defoe to a resort where the warmth
would be still more remarkable.
“Must be losing her mind,” he said shortly. “What ‘wash’?”
“Can’t conceive,” said Miss Choate innocently. “Never mind. The point
is, shall I go?”
“Why not?” said Punch. “It’s about the only place in Europe I know where
you can bathe in comfort without a fleece-lined wet-off bathing-suit and
a sealskin towel. I shouldn’t faint with surprise if I rolled up there
myself. I want to see Judy, and my leave starts on the sixth.”
“I’m not sailing till the end of September,” said Athalia musingly, “so
I could put in a month. I must confess I’ld rather like to get warm.
When’s your Bank Holiday?”
“Sixth of _août_,” said Punch. “I should give that a miss.”
“If I went on the fourth . . .” She sighed. “At least, it’ll be a
change. After all, Life’s rather like a frock. If it’s to be a success,
you must see it from every angle. Besides, to tell you the truth, I
think it’ld be a good move—my suddenly leaving the stage. Nature abhors
a vacuum.”
Fairfax’ heart stood still.
After an awkward silence—
“Is—is he showing any signs of life?” he said uncertainly.
Athalia looked away.
“I—I think so,” she whispered.
* * * * *
Upon being approached, Sir Charles Grist could see no reason at all why
his secretary’s leave should not commence at five on Sunday afternoon
instead of at twelve o’clock on Sunday night.
It was therefore eight-thirty o’clock of a pleasant August evening when
the old grey two-seater slid through the streets of Newhaven and down to
the idle quay.
Two other cars were waiting to go aboard. One was a green cabriolet with
red wire wheels.
Fairfax knew it at once—and stopped in his tracks.
It was an Hispano-Suiza, the property of a nobleman—that, in fact, of
the Most Honourable the Marquess of Beringhampton.
For a moment or two Punch stared at the equipage. Then he took out his
case and lighted a cigarette.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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