Miss Voile stared at the sea with trembling lips.
So soon as she could trust her voice—
“The trouble is,” she said, “you’ve written in the wrong strain—sounded the wrong note.”
“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to sound the wrong note.”
In a shaking voice—
“Give me the pad,” said Cicely.
Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . .
Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the grey-blue sheet.
Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . .
There they rested.