He came at last. It was a rainy day and Gray hadn’t gone to Mortefontaine. The three of us were together, Isabel and I drinking a cup of tea, Gray sipping a whisky and Perrier, when the butler opened the door and Larry strolled in. Isabel with a cry sprang to her feet and throwing herself into his arms kissed him on both cheeks. Gray, his fat red face redder than ever, warmly wrung his hand. “Gee, I’m glad to see you, Larry,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. Isabel bit her lip and I saw she was constraining herself not to cry. “Have a drink, old man,” said Gray unsteadily. I was touched
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