It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. It could not go on much longer, her luck. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent.
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