"I took it through an agent."
"I'm delighted to hear it. Then the man at Marlborough Street is the man for whom the agent let the house."
"Then you are not Mr. Richardson—not 'George Anthony'—and you didn't write Larks in Aspic?" said she, with a flattering shade of disappointment in her tone.
"Oh! yes, I did."
"Then I don't understand in the least—unless—unless—" She put out two deprecating hands. "You don't mean to tell me that this is your house, and we've been living in it without your knowledge! Oh! why didn't you tell me?"
"Come, I like that!" said I. "You'll admit, on reflection, that you haven't given me much time."
But she stamped her foot. "I'll go upstairs and pack at once," she declared.
"That will hardly meet the case, I'm afraid. You forget that your brother is downstairs: and by his look, when I left him, he'll take a deal of packing."
"Herbert?" She put a hand to her brow. "I was forgetting. Then you are not Herbert's friend after all?"
"I have made a beginning. But in fact, I made his acquaintance at Vine Street just now. Trewlove—that's my scoundrel of a butler—has been making up to him under my name. They met at the house-agent's, probably. The rogue models himself upon me: but when it comes to letting my house— By the way, have you paid him by cheque?"