"Have you got any more village idiots hidden around?" he asked warily, as he took her hands; and she was puzzled.
"We used to have several, but they've all got into Congress. Did you want one to take home?"
"My God, no," said the Saint fervently. "The one I met at the gate was bad enough. Is he your latest boy friend?"
Her brow cleared.
"Oh, you mean the old boy with the cleft palate? Isn't he marvellous? I think he's got a screw loose or something. He's been hanging around all day — he keeps ringing the bell and bleating at me. I'd just sent him away for the third time. Did he try to talk to you?"
"He did sort of wag his adenoids at me," Simon admitted, "but I don't think we actually got on to common ground. I felt quite jealous of him for a bit, until I realized that he couldn't possibly kiss you nearly as well as I can, with that set of teeth."
He proceeded to demonstrate this.
"I'm still in a hopeless muddle," she said presently. "But I'll be ready in five minutes. You can be fixing a cocktail while I finish myself off."
In the living room there was an open trunk in one corner and a half-filled packing case in the middle of the floor. There were scattered heaps of paper around it, and a few partially wrapped and unidentifiable objects on the table. The room had that curiously naked and inhospitable look which a room, has when it has been stripped of all those intimately personal odds and ends of junk which make it a home, and only the bare furniture is left.
The Saint raised his eyebrows.