‘Mr Grant,’ she said, greeting him. ‘Laura says that you like to be called Mr.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. “Inspector” has a grim sound in private life.’
‘And a little unreal, too,’ she said in her gentle voice. ‘Like something out of a detective story.’
‘Yes; people expect you to say: “Where were you on the evening of the umpteenth inst?”’ How could this virginal creature be the mother of three sons, one of them nearly old enough to leave school? ‘Have you been having any luck on the river?’
‘I had a nice grilse this morning. You are going to have it for supper.’
She had the kind of beauty that allows a woman to part her hair in the middle and wear it smooth to her head. A dark, small head on a long graceful neck.
He remembered suddenly about the newly decorated bedroom. So the fresh paint had been for Zoë Kentallen, and not for Laura’s latest candidate for his interest. That was an enormous relief. It had been bad enough to have Laura’s selections put under his nose, but to have had the latest one actually under the same roof would have been, to put it mildly, tiresome.
‘The Oban train must have been in time for once,’ Laura said, remarking on his early arrival.
‘Oh, he flew back,’ Tommy said, throwing another log on the fire. He said it casually, unaware that the fact had any importance.
Grant looked over at Laura and saw her face light with happiness. She turned her head to find him among the shadows and saw that he was looking at her, and smiled. Had it mattered so much to her then? Dear Lalla. Dear kind understanding Lalla.