"You were rescued yourself the other night, weren't you?" said the Saint pleasantly.
"Rescued? My good man, I was simply thrown about like an old sack. When the fire alarm went off I didn't realize what it was for a moment, and then when Don Knightley came charging into my room with his hair standing on end and his eyes sticking out and his ears absolutely flapping with the most frightful emotion I merely thought I was in for a fate worse than death, and believe me I was. I mean, all's fair in love and war and all that sort of thing, but to be heaved up by one arm and one leg and slung over a man's bony shoulder, and then to be galloped about over miles of lawn with your only garment flapping up around your neck…"
She seemed to be expecting sympathy.
Simon laughed.
"It must have been rather trying," he admitted. "I haven't seen my rival today. By the way, where is he?"
"He had to go and change the guard, or something dreary. But it doesn't matter. It's nice to see you again."
She might almost have meant it.
"Next time you want rescuing, you must drop me a line," said the Saint. "I'm told I have a very delicate touch with damsels in distress. Maybe I could give you more satisfaction."
She glanced sideways at him, out of the corners of her eyes. Her lips twitched slightly.
"Maybe you could," she said.