Shari laughed hysterically and was promptly shushed by Larry from the next room. . . She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense.
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