MacFarlane was waiting at the bottom of the aircraft steps at Croydon Aerodrome. “They tell me Rome is very pleasant at this time of year, if you’ve the time and the money, and you seem to have enjoyed a few diversions on the way home.” “If you’re going to comment on my travel plans, I hope you’ve brought a motor car to take me into London and a taxi for yourself.” “Got a destination in mind, your ladyship?” “Oh, cut it out, MacFarlane!” Maisie smiled. “I’d like to go to Holland Park—Mrs. Partridge’s home, if that’s all right with you. You know very well where it is.” As the motor car threaded its way from Surrey into London, Robert MacFarlane reported on Leon Donat. “He’s going to be in hospital for another week or so, and then to his house in the country, where he’ll have a nurse to keep an eye on him, and a couple of men posted for reasons of security. The good news is that he’s all right upstairs.” MacFarlane pointed to his forehead. “And he’s already at his drawing board, even though he’s in hospital—had it brought in, he did.
