August 5th.
Dear Belinda,
All right. I wish I’d known you weren’t at Biarritz, because I’d have gone. Never mind. A fortnight from next Thursday will bring us to the 21st. That’ll be all right because I shan’t want to come before September 5th. When you leave you might tell the agent to expect me that day.
Yours,
Ivan.
August was cold and stormy throughout the British Isles. In the South of France prayers for rain were being offered. The papers said that the Biarritz season was the most brilliant ever known.
Pomeroy, who was at a loose end, began to count the days.
Then came a post-card.
August 28th.
Leaving for Biarritz on September 1st. Could you postpone your visit till the 15th? I should have gone before only it’s been impossible to get away. If I don’t hear I shall assume it’s all right.