She sought hastily in her mind for a plausible answer to an obvious question that didn’t come. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own.
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