’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. But all of that was forgotten. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. I didn’t betray you, I swear I didn’t. There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both taboo) at his elbow.
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