Trees grew more dense against the dark. Lights in houses were extinguished. The roar of London, like a voice wearied of quarreling, which mumbled vexatiously in a last retort, sank away into silence. But this tireless voice at his side went on, babbling of nothing, talking and talking.
Nan rose. “I’m sleepy. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? Billy, darling, don’t be long.”
Ocky refilled his foul pipe—with a pipe between his teeth he felt fortified.
Barrington waited for him to reach his point—there was a point he felt sure. Ocky’s visits always had an ulterior motive.
“Everything all right at Madeira Lodge?”
“Topping.”
“And the land investment?”
“Fine.”
“Then what brought you?”
Ocky was as shocked as if a gun had been fired in his face. The question was unkind. He’d tried to be sociable and to stave off unpleasantness—and this was the thanks he got. He squirmed uneasily; the wicker-chair creaked, betraying his agitation.