The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. He kissed her at the door. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence. I believe that her ladyship is going to Carey House, and on to the Marquis of Waterford’s ball,” he added, hastily consulting a diary on the hall table.
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