Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. And then suddenly—a relief. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. . ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. Leonardo was to me nothing at all.
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