A car pulled up and Paul stepped out. He wore civilian clothes, smart, lightweight grey slacks and an open necked white silk shirt.“Good afternoon, ladies.”“Hello. Am I supposed to know you?”“Dr Gratton, isn’t it?” Paul gripped the large, almost mannish hand that was thrust at him.“Yes.”“I’m Paul Ashfield, Daphne would have mentioned me.”“Afraid not. Khoo, another drink, please,” Molly instructed the young houseboy.“A stengah, thanks.” Paul sat down in a cane chair. “How are you Daphne?”“All right.” The words belied this. She looked pale, her skin almost transparent, and her eyes burned fever-bright.“She’s been crying half the night.”“Molly, you’re exaggerating,” Daphne protested.“No, I’m not, my girl. You’re the one who broke her heart before, aren’t you?”Paul felt his cheeks burn. This big, raw-boned woman made him feel like a naughty schoolboy. “Yes.”“She’s already carrying deep scars from you. Don’t inflict any more will you.
