“My God,” said Patricia quietly. And then again, “My God.” She drew in her breath. “I turn to you in my trouble—my hideous, ghastly mess. Not for help, because you can’t give it. I just call to you out of hell—call for a drop of water to wet my lips. And you—you can’t give it me . . . because you’re rather busy . . . watching a race.” She laughed wildly. Simon put down his glasses. “And the letter that’s doing me in—— Never mind. What’s won?”
“Grey Ruby,” said Simon shortly, marking his card. “And don’t you worry, lady. You’re out of the wood.”
Patricia stared.
“Out of the wood?” she repeated.
Simon smiled back.
“Clean,” he said. “Bless your pretty bright eyes. Going to the Wakefields’ dance on Tuesday night?”
“I was.”
“Well, go. I give you my word that there and then you shall have your letter back.” He opened the door of the box. “And now let’s find the Club tent and try some tea.”
At a quarter to twelve on the following Tuesday morning Simon was ushered into a private room.