“Then come upstairs,” said Forsyth. “The matter’s got to be discussed—obviously. You don’t want to write about forty letters, do you?”
“No, but——”
“Well, that’s what it means. More. In a case like this oratio obliqua’s hopeless. One never gets down to things.”
Pomeroy hesitated.
“It’s all damned fine, Forsyth,” he said uneasily, “but we haven’t met since—since the dust-up. Besides, it’s—it’s a very ticklish business—revivin’ memories.”
With a considerable effort Forsyth maintained his gravity.
“I beg that you’ll do as I say. Miss Seneschal sees the wisdom of an ordinary business talk. Surely you’re not going to be the one to resist.”
Pomeroy stared upon the floor.
At length—
“Oh, all right,” he said. “If she wants it. . . .”