"I am staying down at Eastbourne — no, I can't be, I'm not dressed for the part — we've both come down for the afternoon, then. I am going to get into conversation with two women who know me already in my professional capacity. When the talk turns on hat brooches I want you to produce this from your bag, and say that you have just bought it for your sister. Your name, by the way, is Eleanor Raymond, and your sister's is Mary. That is all. Just leave the brooch lying round until I arrange my tie. That will be the signal that I have had all I want."
"All right. What is your first name, by the way?"
"Alan."
"All right, Alan. I nearly forgot to ask you that. It would have been a joke if I had not known my cousin's name!…It's a queer world, isn't it? Look at those primroses in the sun and think of all the people in terrible trouble this minute."
"No, don't. That way madness lies. Think of the pleasantly deserted beach we're going to see in a few minutes."
"Do you ever go to the Old Vic?" she asked, and they were still tolling each other how wonderful Miss Baylis was when they ran into the station; and Grant said, "Come on, Eleanor," and, grabbing her by the arm, picked her from the carriage like a small boy, impatient to try a spade on the sands.
The beach, as Grant had prophesied, was in that pleasantly deserted condition that makes the south-coast resorts so attractive out of the season. It was sunny and very warm, and a few groups lay about on the shingle, basking in the sun in an aristocratic isolation unknown to summer visitors.
"We'll go along the front and come back along the beach," Grant said. "They are bound to be out on a day like this."
"Heaven send they aren't on the downs," she said. "I don't mind walking, but it would take till tomorrow to quarter these."
"I think the downs are ruled out. The lady I am interested in isn't much of a walker, I should say."