"Bring me a vermouth—di Torino—and the time-table." He sat down in a wicker chair, his face thoughtful—"and—Stefano!—" he called him back—"Asti for the Principessa. Lunch at twelve-thirty to-day—we shall be five instead of three—you can add an 'omelette au surprise.' And see that the quails aren't overdone."
"Very good, sir. There are letters come since the Signore left."
He returned with a silver tray on which lay his master's correspondence.
McTaggart took them, with a yawn, turning them over indifferently.
From somewhere through the drowsy heat came a distant sound of chopping wood and a man's voice raised musically, singing over his morning work. McTaggart drank his glass of vermouth, then choosing an envelope directed in a round hand, broke it open with a smile.
It was long since he had heard from Jill. He glanced at the date. The letter had lain at his London rooms and was now sent on to Italy by the faithful Bethune.
"Dear Peter," it began.
"I wonder where you are now? and if you're ever coming home! It's ages since you last wrote, and I've been meaning to reply—only I've been so worried. You'll understand when I tell you my news—about Mother. She's gone to prison."
McTaggart jumped. The very word seemed sinister in the heart of that peaceful drowsy wood, lapped by the indolent Southern sea.
"Poor old Jill!" He read on, his face growing steadily graver.