She rambled on, then suddenly apologised for having to leave him—a grandchild staying in the house was ill.
“Shall you wait for Mr. Greening? I’m afraid he won’t be in for an hour at least.”
“I’ll wait for a bit anyway. I’ve some letters to write.”
He went into the office and sat down. The big ugly rolltop desk was littered with papers—memoranda, bills, estimates, plans of farms, lists of stock-prices. He cleared a space, seized a couple of sheets of the estate note-paper, and began to write.
“My loveliest Stella,” he wrote.
§ 7
He had nearly covered the two sheets when the rattle of a car sounded in the drive below. He looked up eagerly and went to the window, but it was only Gervase lurching over the ruts in the Ford, just scraping past the wall as he swung round outside the house, just avoiding a collision with an outstanding poplar, after the usual manner of his driving.
The next minute he was in the office.
“Hullo! They told me you were over here. I’ve just fetched my luggage from Robertsbridge.”
He sat down on the writing-table and lit a cigarette. Peter hastily covered up his letter. Why did Gervase come bothering him now?