‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. ’ ‘Parbleu, but I find you excessively rude,’ she snapped, marching to meet him. 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. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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