John’s father piped up, bored with the conversation, and asked, “Where do you get your blue eyes, Lucy? What nationality are you?” “I’m mostly Italian, but I get my blue eyes from my mother, who was Gypsy. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours. Before it is too late. Lucy sighed. Must be plenty of work for you to do. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr.
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