Yours faithfully,
Charles Pendragon.
“Why, the man’s mad,” cried Christopher. “Stark, staring. He’s got his dates wrong. This is the sort of deal they did in the Stone Age.”
“It sounds,” said Audrey, “as though he meant what he said. I suppose, in your innocence, you gave me a pretty good chit.”
“He asked what you were like, and I told him the truth. I never dreamed——”
“Of course you didn’t,” said Audrey. “He took jolly good care of that. I know just what he’s like. He’s a brilliant, blasé Gallio—with a pretty wit. He might have done anything: in point of fact, he’s done nothing. When he plays, he plays high: and whether he wins or loses he doesn’t care—with the result that he usually wins. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Sundial: he doesn’t care about me: we’re pawns. He’d sell his birthright, not for a mess of pottage, but for a cup of spice. That letter’s typical—because it’s a masterpiece. Think what the man who wrote that could have done as a diplomat.”
“I don’t see that it’s anything wonderful,” said Christopher John. “It’s a piece of damned impertinence, but——”
“Think,” said Audrey. “In effect he says, ‘Your interference was bad form: the only possible excuse for it was a sense of duty too strong to be withstood. Whether you were really so actuated remains to be seen.’ ”
Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
“You would write,” he said.