"Well, then, my dear, supposing we put it in that brutal way. Have you thought—er——"
"I've done nothing except think. But I've been brought up with about as much earning capacity as a mechanical doll. The only thing I have the slightest talent for being, is—a detective!"
"Good gracious!" was Mrs. Carstairs' comment on that.
"I've felt ever since spy night at the Abbey that I had it in me to make a good detective," I modestly explained.
"'Princess di Miramare, Private Detective,' would be a distinctly original sign-board over an office door," the old lady reflected. "But I believe I've evolved something more practical, considering your name—and your age—(twenty-one, isn't it?)—and your looks. Not that detective talent mayn't come in handy even in the profession I'm going to suggest. Very likely it will—among other things. It's a profession that'll call for all the talents you can get hold of."
"Do you by chance mean marriage?" I inquired, coldly. "I've never been a wife. But I suppose I am a sort of widow."
"If you weren't a sort of widow you couldn't cope with the profession I've—er—invented. You wouldn't be independent enough."
"Invented? Then you don't mean marriage! And not even the stage. I warn you that I solemnly promised Grandmother never to go on the stage."
"I know, my child. She mentioned that to Henry—my husband—when they were discussing your future, before you both left London. My idea is much more original than marriage, or even the stage. It popped into my mind the night Mrs. Courtenaye died, while we were in a taxi between the Palazzo Ardini and this hotel. I said to myself, 'Dear Elizabeth shall be a Brightener!'"
"A Brightener?" I repeated, with a vague vision of polishing windows or brasses. "I don't——"