Читать книгу The Counterplot онлайн
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Outside, the cowman was leading the cows home to the byre across the lawn. It was a good thing that Rudge, the head gardener, was safe in his cottage, eating his tea. Far away an express flashed across the view, whistling like a nightjar, giving a sudden whiff of London that evaporated as swiftly as its smoke.
“But we don’t call her ‘Auntie’; we call her ‘Teresa,’” said Anna for the thousandth time.
“Now, Anna dear, don’t be rude. Up you get, Jasper. I’m afraid, miss, it really is bed-time ... and they were late last night too.”
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Teresa dressed and went down to the drawing-room, to find her father and Jollypot already there and chatting amicably.
“The place was full of salmon at four and sixpence a pound, and he said, ‘You’ll never get rid of that!’ and the fishmonger said, ‘Won’t I? It’ll go like winking,’ and the other chap said, ‘Who’ll buy it these hard times?’ and he said, ‘The miners, of course.’”
Dick Lane was a stockily-built man of middle height, with a round, rubicund face. A Frenchman had once described him as, Le type accompli du farmer-gentleman.