Felicity completed the arrangements, and Savile left, a very happy boy.
At three o'clock Felicity, in her wonderful orchid-mauve tea-gown, was conversing pathetically with Jasmyn Vere, one of the habitués of what her friends called her sentimental bureau.
He was not one of her favourite clients. He was egotistical, and his mania for Agatha was becoming rather a bore. Agatha was a plain, muscular, middle-aged widow who drove him to distraction by her temper and her flirtations. Felicity only stood it at all because he sang and played beautifully, imitated popular actors in his lighter moments, and gave amusing dinners at restaurants.
"What would you have done?" he said. "By mistake, Agatha posted this letter to me!"
He took out of a pale grey morocco case a note with "Stanhope Gate" and a large "A" on it in scarlet and black.
She read—
Dear Bob,
Excuse rush. All rubbish about Jasmin. He's a hopeless idiot, but a good old sort. Mind you fetch me in time for Lingfield Races to-morrow and put me on to a good thing.
Yours,
Agatha.