“Not very well, my dear. It really wouldn’t take you a minute to hear about it viva voce.”
“But you can’t keep on calling every day!” cried Bertha, exasperated.
“Quite so. Couldn’t you go in for a few minutes to-morrow morning at the Grosvenor Gallery in Bond Street? Say at about eleven or twelve? I won’t keep you five minutes, I promise, and you can tell me if you approve of my plan.”
“Very well, I’ll do that. Quarter-past eleven,” added Bertha.
“Only one thing, Bertha, don’t tell anyone—not a soul.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll explain when I see you. But you mustn’t mention it. It’s nothing—two seconds.”
“Oh, all right! But why so many mysteries? You might just as well tell me now on the telephone.”
“I’m afraid I can’t; I have to show you a letter.”
“I suppose Rupert has been seeing Moona Chivvey again? Is that it?”