“Good old chap,” he said, “I’ll answer his letter right away.”
So he sat down at his desk and began:
Dear Mr. Ainger:
I am more than ashamed that I have never written to you; but so many things have happened. To begin with I have a modest apartment near the Luxemburg Gardens. I was married a year ago. My wife’s a jolly good sort. You’d like her. I intended after my marriage to get work of some kind, but the unexpected happened. It seems I had a maternal grandmother living in Monaco. She had quarrelled with my mother; and though she gave consent to the marriage she refused to be reconciled. When she died it was found she had left everything to me. They had some trouble in finding me, but through the old chap who brought me up, they eventually did.
I now find myself the owner of a property in the Condamine that nets me twelve thousand francs a year, enough for two quiet people to jog along on quite comfortably. After all, I’ve come to the conclusion I’m one of those simple souls who want to slip through life with as little trouble as possible to themselves and to every one else.
My hobbies are cars and painting. I am the proud possessor of a little Buggatti in which I whiz the wife out to Barbizon occasionally. Otherwise I attend the Ecole des Beaux Arts and am doing quite well. In time I hope I’ll make an averagely good artist, and occasionally sell a croute.
I am so glad to hear of your success. The sort of books you write are the sort I like. But then I am not exacting, and read to take my mind off the monotony of existence. Sometimes, you know, on a wet day when one can’t paint and there’s no billiard table, a good yarn’s not a bad thing to pass the time. I imagine there’s a whole lot like me.
By the way, you speak of finding a quiet corner where you can hole up and live cheaply. I have a little cottage at Villefranche which I can offer you. There’s not much in the way of furniture, but you can stay there as long as you like and what with the produce of a big garden and the fish you can catch, the cost of life is reduced to a minimum.
Now don’t refuse....
Hugh had got this far when Margot entered. He handed her his letter to read.