chapter 1 part 7
Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself: "The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway. . . . Not like France where you really could let out. . . ." Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. He'd have a gin and gingerbeer. Fizzing hot day! This island place ought to be rather good fun-if the weather lasted. Who were these Owens, he wondered? Rich and stinking, probably. Badger was rather good at nosing people like that out. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no money of his own. . Hope they'd do one well in drinks. Never knew with these fellows who'd made their money and weren't born to it. Pity that story about Gabrielle Turl having bought Indian Island wasn't true. He'd like to have been in with that film star crowd. Oh, well, he supposed there'd be a few girls there. Coming out of the Hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into the Dalmain. Several young women looked at him admiringly-his six feet of wellproportioned body, his crisp hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes. He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and errand boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly. Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.