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. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. ‘Oh, the Frenchie. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. Manning as they talked. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows.
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