“I ought to have known it from the first,” he muttered. “Reciprocal refraction was the one thing to think about.”
Granet, as he drove back to the Dormy House, was conscious of a curious change in the weather. The wind, which had been blowing more or less during the last few days, had suddenly dropped. There was a new heaviness in the atmosphere, little banks of transparent mist were drifting in from seawards. More than once he stopped the car and, standing up, looked steadily away seawards. The long stretch of marshland, on which the golf links were situated, was empty. A slight, drizzling rain was falling. He found, when he reached the Dormy House, that nearly all the men were assembled in one of the large sitting-rooms. A table of bridge had been made up. Mr. Collins was seated in an easy-chair close to the window, reading a review. Granet accepted a cup of tea and stood on the hearth-rug.
“How did the golf go this afternoon?” he inquired.
“I was dead off it,” Anselman replied gloomily.
“Our friend in the easy-chair there knocked spots off us.”
Mr. Collins looked up and grunted and looked out of the window again.
“Either of you fellows going to cut in at bridge?” young Anselman continued.
Granet shook his head and walked to the window.
“I can’t stick cards in the daytime.”
Mr. Collins shut up his review.