She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on the beach. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ” She opened the car door for herself. But I wanted to find out more, partly so I could share it with him. Why was he there? why did the tempter dare to invade that sacred spot! She could not answer her own questions, but vague fearful suspicions passed through her mind. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it.
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