Chapter 59

Ewart, the shrewd, the imperturbable, was jesting with the reporters and slapping them on the back. MacMahon, supine upon a sofa, was endeavouring to sing. Jordan, who never drank, was the worse for wear. Akers was writing home, enclosing a preposterous cheque. And the name of the winning car was on everyone’s lips. From the terrace at Iriberri Roderick smiled at the sea. Gyneth’s arms were about him and her hair was against his cheek. “You see, Gyneth, darling, I had to. We couldn’t have lived on five hundred, and…