' He recalled the Margate sands, bathing with
Albinia and digging trenches with the children. He had written many
lyrics during those happy weeks of holiday.
'Gave one, in fact, quite a new view of life--and work. There was such
space and beauty everywhere. And my cousin's children simply would not
let me go.'
There was a hint of apology and excuse in the tone and words--the
merest hint, but Minks noticed it and liked the enthusiasm. 'He's been
up to some mischief; he feels a little ashamed; his work--his Scheme--
has been so long neglected; conscience pricks him. Ha, ha!' The
secretary felt his first suspicion confirmed. 'Cousin's children,'
perhaps! But who else?
'He made a tactful reference--oh, very slight and tentative--to the
data he had collected for the Scheme, but the other either did not
hear it, or did not wish to hear it. He brushed it aside, speaking
through clouds of tobacco smoke. Minks enjoyed a bigger, braver puff
at his own. Excitement grew in him.
'Just the kind of place you would have loved, Minks,' Rogers went on
with zeal. 'I think you really must go there some day; cart your
family over, teach the children French, you know, and cultivate a bit
of vineyard. Such fine big forests, too, full of wild flowers and
things--O such lovely hand-made things--why, you could almost see the
hand that made 'em.
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