” To which the only possible reply seemed to be, “I’m not coming home. Mrs. 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. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. "You're mistaken, Winny.
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