Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his sister's temper, he added hastily:
“By the way, how's Peter keeping? Has he had any more of these turns of his—apoplexy, wasn't it?”
“He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the other day. Of course, he's got to be careful and not excite himself; but he seemed to me as if he'd quite got over the slight attack he'd had in the spring.”
“Still got his old squirrel?”
“It's still there. And the rest of the menagerie too. He insisted on showing me them all, and of course I had to pretend to be frightfully interested. Poor old man, they're all he has now, since his wife died. It would be very lonely for him up there, with no one within a mile of him. His birds and things are great company for him, he says.”
Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the conversation was edging away from the dangerous subject. He led it still further out of the zone.
“Have you see Cressida and Stanley this morning? They'd finished breakfast and gone out before I came on the scene.”
“I think they were going to play golf. They ought to be back presently.”
She went to the window and gazed out for a moment or two without speaking. Her brother took up The Times and resumed his study of the share market, with evident relief.
“This hotel spoils Lynden Sands,” Miss Fordingbridge broke out after a short silence. “It comes right into the view from the front of Foxhills—great staring building! And, wherever you go along the bay, you see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view. It'll ruin the place. And it'll give the villagers all sorts of notions, too. Visitors always spoil a small village.”