"So he may have thought you were in love with him. You'd let him think so. Is that it?" Simon persisted.
"Yes, I suppose so, if you put it that way. But what else could I do?"
She stared at him indignantly, as if she were denying a thoroughly unjust accusation.
"I bet you wouldn't see a thousand-guinea fur coat that you were simply aching to have go slipping away just because you couldn't make a bit of an effort with a man," she said vehemently. "And it was in a good cause, too."
The Saint smiled sympathetically. He still hadn't much idea what she was talking about, but he knew with a tumultuous certainty that he was getting somewhere. Out of all that confusion something clear and revealing must emerge within another minute or two — if only luck gave him that other minute. He was aware that his pulses were beating a shade faster.
"Was John going to give you a fur coat?" he inquired.
"John? My dear, don't be ridiculous. John would never have given me a fur coat. Why, he never even took me anywhere in a taxi."
She paused.
"He wasn't mean," she added quickly. "You mustn't think that. He was terribly generous, really, even though he didn't have much money. But he used to spend it all on frightfully earnest things, like books and lectures and Brotherhood of Man leagues and all that sort of thing." She shook her head dejectedly. "He used to work so hard and study such a lot and have such impossible ideals, and now… If only he'd had a good time first, it wouldn't seem quite so bad somehow," she said chokingly. "But he just wouldn't have a good time. He was much too earnest."
"He probably enjoyed himself in his own way," said the Saint consolingly. "But about this fur coat. Where was that coming from?"