"You don't trust me," Dorothy complained.
"My dear, it isn't that; but I certainly should have to tell him that I told you, and I'm sure he wouldn't like it. After all, we ought to be very grateful for this jolly flat where we're perfectly free and have nothing to bother about. Remember what happened to Psyche."
Dorothy was inclined to add "and also to Fatima"; but since she could not pretend that the great man did in any way remind her of Bluebeard and since the flat undoubtedly was delightful, she did her best to restrain her curiosity, even though sometimes it irritated her like prickly heat.
"It's a pity he had to go away to write his letters at a club," she said.
"But he couldn't write from this address."
"No, but we could keep some plain paper for him," said Dorothy. "And that reminds me, what is your crest?"
Olive looked alarmed.
"I don't think I've got a crest," she said. "My father's a solicitor in Warwickshire."
"Warwickshire?" repeated Dorothy. "That's an odd coincidence. I wonder if he knows Lord Cleveden."
Olive shook her head vaguely.