A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Oh, Mr Jarvis paid no mind,’ she added hastily, as if expecting disapproval.
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