"Don't you appreciate what I've done for you?"
"Every bit of it," he said, with superhuman moderation. "So much so that if I'd had the least idea what was in your mind—"
"Where shall we go for our honeymoon?"
Simon nursed the car round a corner like an old lady wheeling her granddaughter's pram.
"Listen," he said, "I don't particularly care where you go for our honeymoon so long as it's no place where I'm going. If you have any sense, which is getting more-doubtful every minute, you'll travel like smoke for the next few days and put the biggest distance you can between yourself and London; and you won't send your friends any picture post-cards on the way to let them know where you are."
Her lips trembled slightly.
"I see," she said. "You… you've had all you want from me, and now you just want to get rid of me. Well, I've been too clever for you this time. I'm not going to be got rid of."
"Do you want to die young?" demanded the Saint exasperatedly. "Don't you see that I'm going to be much too busy to look after you? For Pete's sake, have a little sense. I'll let you off at Southampton, where there are lots of boats going to nice places like New Zealand and so forth."
"And what are you going to do after you've ditched me?" she asked sulkily. "I suppose you'll go dashing back to your blonde girl friend and tell her how clever you are."
"I don't have to tell her," said the Saint. "She knows."