ent you?"

That staggered me. I hadn't allowed for her voice. For a moment I
wondered wildly what _had_ she sent me?

"Oh, yes. I liked it. But--" I began it again.

She leaned forward this time, peering under my elbow (the minx! I'm
convinced she knew the infernal thing was there).

"I see," she said. "You've lost it. Don't bother. I can do another. As
long as you liked it, that's all right."

I remember thinking violently: "It isn't all right. It's all wrong. And
the more I like it (if I _do_ like it) the worse it's going to be." But
all I said was, "You wrote from Canterbury, didn't you?"

"Yes."

It was as if she challenged me with: "Why not? Why shouldn't one write
from Canterbury?" And she stuck out her little chin as her eyes opened
fire on me at close range.

"Do you live there?" I said.

"Yes." She corrected herself. "My people live there."

"Oh! Because--in that case--I'm sorry--but--the fact is, I'm afraid--" I
floundered, and she watched me floundering. Then I plunged. "I must have
a typist who lives in London." (And I might have added "a typist who
won't open fire on me at close range.")

"But," she said, "I do--at least, I'm going to to-morrow evening."

I must have sat staring then quite a long time, not at her, but at one of
Roland Simpson's sketches on the wall in front of me.

She followed, but not quite accurately, the direction of my thoughts.

"If you want references, I can give you heaps. General Thesiger's my
uncle. Why? Do you know him?"

I had ceased staring. He was not the General I knew, but she had spoken a
sufficiently distinguished name. I said as much.

"Of course lots of people know him," she went on with a sort of radiant
rapidity. "And he knows lots of people. But I wouldn't write to him if I
were you. He'll only be rude, and ask you who the devil _you_ are.
There's my father, Canon Thesiger. It's no good writing to him, either.
It'll worry him. And there's--no, you mustn't bother the Archbishop. But
there's the Dean. You might write to _him_! And there's Colonel
Braithwaite and Mrs. Braithwaite. They're all dears. You might write to
any of them. Only I'd much rather you didn't."

"Why?" I said. I thought I was entitled to ask why.

"Because," she said, "it'll only mean a lot more bother for me."

I believe I meditated on this before I asked her, "Why should it?"

"Because it isn't easy to get away and earn your own living in this
country. And they'll try, poor d