” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. The man was my husband. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. ‘You are really not helping matters, my friend. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. When Mr. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. ” “No,” she moaned, “not that. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.
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