She pressed his arm a little. The day was overcast, a slight rain was beginning to fall.
“Francis,” she whispered, “we had a perfect day here yesterday. Now the sun has gone and I am shivery.”
He understood in a moment.
“We'll lunch at Ranelagh,” he suggested. “It is almost on the way up. Then we can see what the weather is like. If it is bad, we can dine in town tonight and do a theatre.”
“You are a dear,” she told him fervently. “I am going in to get ready.”
Francis went round to the garage for his car, and brought it to the front. While he was sitting there, Sir Timothy came through the door in the wall. He was smoking a cigar and he was holding an umbrella to protect his white flannel suit. He was as usual wonderfully groomed and turned out, but he walked as though he were tired, and his smile, as he greeted Francis, lacked a little of its usual light-hearted mockery.
“Are you going up to town?” he enquired.
Francis pointed to the grey skies.
“Just for the day,” he answered. “Lady Cynthia went by the early train. We missed you last night.”
“I came down late,” Sir Timothy explained, “and I found it more convenient to stay at The Walled House. I hope you find that Grover looks after you while I am away? He has carte blanche so far as regards my cellar.”