Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusing
himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. The
Duchess was not reticent.
Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the
sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long
time since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that
he had forgotten it.
"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been reminded
of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been
very good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That would
make him thirty-two now--and Stephen could hardly imagine what "Wings"
would have developed into at thirty-two.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33