“Don’t you think, Lady Pomfret, that we are sharper than men in noticing significant trifles?”
“You are, I am sure.”
“A lone orphan has to be. Perhaps you disregard things and focus your attention upon persons?”
“Yes; I think I do.”
Lady Margot turned to Lionel, addressing him quite easily, as if she had known him for years.
“Have you a cigarette? My case is in the motor.”
“If you like Turkish.”
She lay back, puffing contentedly, surveying the Pomfrets through half-closed eyes. They were sitting under a big walnut tree, said to be a sanctuary from gnats and midges. The great lawn, bordered by beeches, stretched far away into the distance till it melted into the park. Beyond the undulating park and below it lay the Avon valley now embellished by a soft haze—the finest view in Wiltshire, according to the Squire. Visitors praised this view. Lady Margot, guessing as much, said nothing. However, her attitude, her air of being contentedly at home, might be considered better than any compliment. She murmured lazily:
“How delicious it is here!”
She blew a tiny circle of smoke, and watched it melt away, smiling like a child. The Squire said heartily: