"I don't."
There was a ring at the door. Flora blushed genuinely, and put some powder on. She became sweet and tactful again, and refined, the amiable woman of the world. She helped her mother out of the arm-chair, quite unnecessarily, but perhaps to hurry her departure.
"You'd better leave us alone now, darling," she said, "and girlie will tell you all about it afterwards."
Mrs. Luscombe ran like a hare through a side door.
The servant announced, throwing open the folding doors, "Mr. Rathbone."
In two seconds the feather-duster was behind a screen, and Flora, looking really very handsome—she was, as usual in the daytime, in semi-evening dress—was reading a little book covered in old vellum, and kept for the purpose of her being found reading it. She put it down and welcomed her guest charmingly.
Rathbone, looking very fair and pink and rather determined, had brought with him a kind of case containing his collection of old theatre programmes, so that he gave the impression of being a diplomat of high importance with a portfolio.
She helped him prettily to show her the programmes, and was pleased to see that there was something else on his mind.
She gave him a cigarette and they had tea. He told her the ancient story of his writing to Cissie Loftus, and how he had never received an answer. She welcomed the anecdote as though it combined the brilliance of a jewel with the freshness of a daisy.
Then he spoke in a somewhat thick voice and with that rather gruff manner that she associated with sincerity.