"M'm. Well, you can see what you can do, if you like. You mustn't be rough with the bag. It's sensitive, for all that it's made of pigskin."
"May I have the alleged key? Thank you. It is not by force, but by persuasion, that I—ahem—gain my points."
"I should think you're an only child."
"I am," I said. "That's why."
We were in a first-class compartment on the London South Western Railway, rushing away from London, down to Dorsetshire, with its heights and woodland and its grey stone walls. There had been some trouble at Waterloo, and it was only at the last moment that an 'engaged' label had been torn off our carriage window and we had been permitted to enter. The other occupant of the carriage—an aged member of the House of Lords—after regarding us with disapproval for ninety miles, had left the train at the last station. Then my lady had turned to her nice new dressing—bag and had sought to open it. In vain she had inserted a key. In vain she had attempted to insert other keys, obviously too large. Therein she had shown her feminism. I love to see a woman do a womanly thing. Finally she had sighed and pushed her dark hair back from her temples with a gesture of annoyance. The time seeming ripe, I had spoken.
Now I turned to the obstructive wards. All she had done was to double-lock it, and I had it open in a moment.
"Thank you so much."
"Not at all. I was brought up as a burglar. What a blessed thing the old earl's left us."
"I suppose it is."
"Thank you so much."