Naturally, her holiday plans now included Fabian, bronzed and handsome, lying on a beach or drinking on a terrace, and this required less of an effort of imagination than when her companion had been Arthur Grampian. But so far Fabian had said nothing definite about it. His last letter, indeed, had been unsatisfactory, perfunctory almost—it was difficult to describe exactly what was wrong. It had begun affectionately enough, but after that it had meandered on about nothing very much, the weather, even, and then come to an abrupt end, with half a sheet left blank.
