"Frank Ashurst! Haven't seen you since Rugby, old chap!"
Ashurst's frown dissolved; the face, close to his own, was blue-eyed,
suffused with sun--one of those faces where sun from within and without
join in a sort of lustre. And he answered:
"Phil Halliday, by Jove!"
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh! nothing. Just looking round, and getting some money. I'm staying on
the moor."
"Are you lunching anywhere? Come and lunch with us; I'm here with my
young sisters. They've had measles."
Hooked in by that friendly arm Ashurst went along, up a hill, down a
hill, away out of the town, while the voice of Halliday, redolent of
optimism as his face was of sun, explained how "in this mouldy place
the only decent things were the bathing and boating," and so on, till
presently they came to a crescent of houses a little above and back from
the sea, and into the centre one an hotel--made their way.
"Come up to my room and have a wash. Lunch'll be ready in a jiffy."
Ashurst contemplated his visage in a looking-glass. After his farmhouse
bedroom, the comb and one spare shirt regime of the last fortnight,
this room littered with clothes and brushes was a sort of Capua; and he
thought: 'Queer--one doesn't realise But what--he did not quite know.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278