‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. “I know nothing about your wife. ” John greeted him. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. ‘Good. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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