Chapter XXII The Counsellor

* * * * * “So that’s the real story?” said Uncle Tony. He was sitting under the beech tree on the lawn after dinner, hardly visible except for the glow of his cigar. Mildred, a dim vision in white, reclined in a deep cane chair beside him. The river was audible close by, rippling against the roots of the willows. A boat carrying a gramophone was drifting past on the far side, the raucosity of the accursed instrument mellowed by transmission over water. A mile upstream, over Ripleigh Reac…