"Not late, yet. Besides, we can't go out in that weather with an open automobile. They know at home where we are."
They did; that was precisely the core of Gerard's exasperation and unrest. What impressions would this tête-à-tête afternoon convey to Corrie? And what would Flavia think of her guest's guardianship of her cousin? He picked up his cue with enforced resignation.
The clock had struck the half-hour, when a long blast from an electric horn pierced through the clamor of the storm.
"Another motor-party caught out," Isabel hazarded, her tone decidedly cross. She was losing again, and she did not like the experience. "Your play. You seem to find it more amusing to look out the window."
Gerard was spared reply. The billiard-room door was pushed open by the Japanese steward and a figure in gleaming rain-proof attire appeared on the threshold—the figure of a chauffeur, cap in hand.
"Lenoir!" Isabel exclaimed.
The chauffeur saluted.
"Mr. Rose sent the limousine to convey mademoiselle and Mr. Gerard," he informed them, in his precise, Parisian-flavored English.
"My uncle is home?"