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gibber, or whatever they do.”
    There being no particular answer to this, they all went to the pool for coffee.
    Celia poured the coffee; when Richard had drunk his, he glanced at his wrist watch and said that he had suddenly remembered an appointment with his tenant farmer which might take some time. He excused himself with impersonal courtesy.
    Celia watched him as he strode into the house. He kept his black hair cropped short, shorter than the other men did, except for George Simpson who was bald, but Richard’s features needed no softening. Beneath the tanned skin and the shadow of a well-shaven beard lay a bone structure worthy of Greek sculpture; no, not
Greek,
more a Renaissance type, with his long, rather aquiline nose, full lips and deep eyesockets under the straight black bars of eyebrows.
    “Mine host seems a bit put out,” remarked Myra, shrugging. “Quite the most mysterious man I know. Very polite lord-of-the-manor, but one feels there’s a positively smoldering Heathcliffe somewhere. Or am I wrong, my sweet?” She addressed Celia, while voluptuously stroking sun lotion on her long, slightly freckled legs.
    “Of course Richard’s not annoyed,” Celia retorted. “He simply forgot that he had to see Hawkins today. They’re building a new pigsty at the farm.”
    Myra yawned. “How dreary. I should think even ghosts would be preferable. Mrs. Taylor, what time would you like to start your ‘expedition’? I’ll drive my car and take Harry.” She nodded towards that gratified knight, whose prominent brown eyes glistened expectantly. “And will
you
come with us, Mrs. Taylor?” Myra added, giving a little purring laugh at Harry’s change of expression.
    After eight years of boredom, spent mostly at the Duke’s principal seat in Warwickshire, Myra was enjoying her widowhood. She enjoyed playing amorous games, she enjoyed conquests, and though she had been a faithful wife to her old arthritic Duke, she had no more moral scruples than the wild Border-lords from whom she descended. Her hedonism and mischief-making were, however, tempered by a careless good nature, and an inborn sense of responsibility. Many a tenant near her father’s Cumberland castle, or later at Drewton, spoke of her with warm gratitude.
    Lily, having received Myra’s sanction, forgot Richard’s odd behavior and enthusiastically outlined the afternoon plans. “If you don’t mind, dear?” she asked belatedly of her daughter.
    Celia knew that she should say, “Yes, I do, since Richard is not pleased,” but she smiled acquiescence.
    Oh, what is the matter with Richard, she thought. Why did he speak so crossly to Mother? What a fuss about nothing! These weekend parties had become a strain anyway. Yet Richard wanted them. He wanted people around. He wanted, and she faced it fleetingly, not to be alone with her.
    Edna Simpson lumbered up from the edge of the lounge chair where she had uncomfortably seated herself. Her square bulldog face was red, her thick lips compressed. Nobody had consulted
her
preferences. Rude, brazen American women! (The Duchess was exempt from Edna’s indignation.) Lily received a hostile glare, then the spectacles flashed as they turned towards Celia. Stupid little thing, not even pretty. The outsider, the intruder. Disliked her on sight, I did. And my impressions are never wrong. He’ll soon tire of her, if he hasn’t already.
    “It’s hot,” Edna announced. “My headache’s returning. I’ll rest this afternoon, if it is quaite convenient to have tea sent up?”
    “Of course,” Celia murmured, and was startled by a malevolent stare. This impression seemed so ridiculous that Celia dismissed it.
    They all drifted into the house, and Celia went to find Richard. He had already changed and was not in his dressing room, but Nanny Cameron, his old nurse, was there. She was laying out Richard’s dinner clothes on the small divan where he had taken to sleeping lately.
    Her wrinkled, purple-veined hands