He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Now, she was the very reverse of all this.
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