“I must, my darling. This is a one man show. Besides, I think my job is to get hold of Nell. You don’t want her blowing in to spoke your wheel.”
“My word, no,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“I’ll say you’re tired and take her to see the play.”
“Right.”
The door closed.
For a moment or two Crispin continued to brush the Sealyham. Then he rose to his feet and picked up the letter on which he had been sitting. He re-read it carefully.
You ask me why I never turned up this morning. I can see no earthly reason why you shouldn’t know. Convention has offered me fifty, but they’re none of them sound. If either of us was a fool, if the understanding which you and Madge share was less perfect, finally, if you were almost any sort of man but the sort of man you are, it would be different. As it is. . . .
Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth.
As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there you are. . . .
You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell you I love you better than anything on earth. But my impulse is to do both. So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this morning.