The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. Can’t travel alone, a pair of nuns. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence.
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