Up in the woods above the chateau an owl hooted, and on the highway I heard the sound of a car.
Not yet, I thought, not yet. Don’t let them return yet. Don’t let them come swooshing round the drive in their high-powered car, the glaring headlights lighting up the woods; and come tumbling out of the car, laughing and joking after their day out, this one saying how hungry he is, that one calling out for somebody to go mix him the biggest goddam highball ever thought of, and the women calling to the children, and the lamps being lit all over the house, and the sound of snatches of song; and laughter, more laughter.
Nice people, no doubt, gay and generous and big-hearted, but I didn’t want them yet. Not just at that moment, when I had almost worked it all out, nearly had the picture clear of the workings of the mind of Philip Bartels, my friend.
The sound of the car drew nearer; then passed, and died away in the distance. I relaxed, thankful. The owl hooted again.
My pipe had gone out long since. I did not bother to relight it.