He had delivered it only this morning, had handed it in to young Beth at the front door. A slim volume of some two hundred pages, it was entitled The View From Up Here, with a plain cover in white, black and gold. Well, there was little else to do. Beth had not returned from tennis, while Margaret, fussy and almost breathless in the cornflower blue dress, had set forth for Bolton in search of her young man. She settled back on down-filled cushions, opened the book and began a fascinating journey through the life of a man who had never settled, whose origins were uncertain, who took what was offered, asked for little, worked when necessary. As she made her way through the early pages, Katherine encountered the real Peter Smythe, a self-made wit and gentleman whose written prose was as perfect as his delivered English. This was, indeed, a man of mystery . . . Katherine woke as Beth entered the room, pink and damp after several sets of tennis.
