“It’s a question of arrangement,” he said. “That’s all I can say. I don’t suppose you want to renounce—surrender your share?”
Belinda sat up.
“And have him take both? Not much.”
“Well, there you are,” said Forsyth. “In view of the testator’s words, I take it you won’t care to sell, so there’s nothing for it. You must arrange to share it.” Here a telephone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver. “Yes? . . . Right. Show him into the waiting-room.” He replaced the receiver. “Here he is, Miss Seneschal.”
That lady leaped to her feet.
“Then I’m off,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” said Forsyth, rising. “If he’s prepared to meet you, won’t you stay?” Belinda shook her head. “It’s infinitely better to talk this over at once. It’ll save no end of correspondence.”
“I can’t help that,” said Miss Seneschal. “The position’s impossible enough. Think, Mr. Forsyth. We’ve each got to share something with the one person in the world with whom we can share nothing. We’re mutual thorns in the flesh. I tell you frankly, the very thought of him makes me tired, and I fancy the sight of me would send him out of his mind.”
“If you’ll forgive my saying so, it would be a great deal more likely to bring him to your feet.”
“I don’t want him at my feet.”