Graeme Jakes found his step-sister in the hall on his return. He laid his rifle down, and, crossing over to the fireplace, stood eyeing her with his back to the empty hearth.
The evening post had been brought in and the surface of the sofa not occupied by the lady's angular form was strewn with opened envelopes, charitable appeals, receipted bills, and a sprinkling of letters. Lady Manners was a woman approaching forty, clad in garments of aggressively country cut, and about her obtrusively brogued feet a collection of dachshunds squirmed and writhed.
She looked up from her correspondence and scrutinised her brother through tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.
"Where have you been all the afternoon?" she inquired. "The Smedleys were over to tea."
"Those people who bought The Garth?"
"Yes. Mrs. Smedley brought her two girls expressly to renew their acquaintance with you. And you—you vanish!"
Lady Manners picked up another envelope and slit it open with an action somehow suggestive of a hard-pressed fishmonger gutting herrings.
"I've had some," was the reply.
"Had what—tea?"
"No, Mrs. Smedley's girls. The Misses Smedley."