“You don’t like Bridge?” her cousin asked her quickly.
Sydney was uncompromising in her views at all times. “Not at all,” she said.
If she had been looking at St. Quentin at the moment she would have seen an expression of relief on his face at her answer. But she was looking round the room, which certainly was rather untidy.
“Wouldn’t you like the hearth swept, and these cards put away in their case, and the papers in a drawer?” she asked her cousin. “I don’t believe Dickson has been in here since this morning, has he?”
“No, Bridge and I were talking private business.”
“Shall I put away the papers, Cousin St. Quentin?”
“Yes, in the second drawer of the writing-table, left hand side. Lock it, please, and give me the key.”
She obeyed him, then swept up the hearth, regardless of his “Ring for Dickson!” and finally sat down in the great brown leather chair by the fireside.
“Cousin St. Quentin, may I ask you one or two questions?”
“Yes.”