At this moment there was a knock at the door.
“Although I can’t oblige you with an order of admission,” said Rhadamanthus, very civilly, “perhaps it would amuse you to listen to a case or two. There’s no hurry, you know. You’ve got lots of time before you.”
“It will be an extremely interesting experience,” said I, sitting down again.
The door opened, and, as I expected (I don’t know why, but it happens like that in dreams), Dolly Mickleham came in. She did not seem to see me. She bowed to Rhadamanthus, smiled, and took a chair immediately opposite the table.
“Mickleham—Dorothea—Countess of—” she said.
“Formerly, I think, Dolly Foster?” asked Rhadamanthus.
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” said Dolly.
“The account runs on,” he explained, and began to consult his big book. Dolly leant back in her chair, slowly peeling off her gloves. Rhadamanthus shut the book with a bang.
“It’s not the least use,” he said decisively. “It wouldn’t be kind to pretend that it was, Lady Mickleham.”
“Dear, dear,” said Dolly. “What’s the matter?”