“You and Fanny being here make it right for me,” said Clara. “You’re surely coming to dinner with me on Saturday night? You won’t mind missing the Avebury fireworks and town band?”
“Of course we’re coming.”
“There’s a disappointment, though; Gil Craye can’t be with us. We won’t get any bridge.”
Hunter took his cup of tea from his wife, and settled himself more deeply in his chair. “I regret the bridge,” he said, his mouth curving up at one corner, “but I shall survive the absence of Gilbert Craye. He has been what I can only describe as underfoot this summer.”
Fanny said: “He’s lonely. It must be awful not to be able to use one’s eyes.”
“Well, my dear, he uses his freely—except for purposes that I really think are not essential to his happiness. He can play bridge.”
“Poor Gil, he ado
