My room was at the front of the house, and immediately below lay the gravel drive leading to the gateway through which I’d driven with Mike. On either side of the drive, lawns as smooth as billiard tables stretched away to distant laurel hedges. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the sea from my window, but in this I was disappointed. Beyond the boundaries of the garden lay moorland, rising to the left, and on the right dropping down to the road up from Chapelcombe. A heavy dew lay on the grass but all trace of the mist had gone. I turned from the window, picked up the zipped writing-case which I’d laid on the table the previous night, and climbed back into bed with it. This seemed the ideal chance to write my duty letter home. Well, I arrived safely, I began conventionally, and was met at the station by Mr Haig’s daughter – who’s about eight – and his cousin (very good-looking!).
