Dinner had been ordered beforehand by the forethought of Mr Pointz, and a bowing waiter led them upstairs and into a private room on the first floor. Here a round table was ready laid. The big bulging bow-window gave on the harbour square and was open. The noise of the fair came up to them, and the raucous squeal of three roundabouts each blaring a different tune.
‘Best shut that if we’re to hear ourselves speak,’ observed Mr Pointz drily, and suited the action to the word.
They took their seats round the table and Mr Pointz beamed affectionately at his guests. He felt he was doing them well and he liked to do people well. His eyes rested on one after another. Lady Marroway – fine woman. Not quite the goods, of course, he knew that – he was perfectly well aware that what he had called all his life the crème de la crème would have very little to do with the Marroways – but then the crème de la crème
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