’ ‘Gammon,’ interrupted Hilary scornfully. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. C below. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply.
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