“I hope you’ll be very happy at Les Iles d’Or, Ivan.”
Pomeroy took off his hat.
“I might have been,” he said.
With her hand in his, Belinda looked down and away.
“Good-bye,” she said gently.
The hand slipped away, and my lady got into the car.
“You will lunch—one day?” said Ivan.
Belinda nodded.
The London season was drawing to a close.