"You've thought over what I said? Have you mentioned it to her?"
"Only kind of hinted at it. It's no good putting it too straight to her.
She's got the bit between her teeth and she'll need to be humored."
Eve had gone to fetch her cloak and we were alone outside the door. I looked at him steadfastly—he was so very pink and white, so very cheerful, so utterly optimistic!
"You've never seen the inside of an English prison, have you, Mr. Parker?"
I asked.
He stared at me blankly.
"I am not thinking about you or myself," I went on. "She's so dainty and sweet! She looks like a child who has never known an hour of rough usage in her life. They wouldn't leave her much of that, you know."
I had certainly succeeded in making an impression this time. Mr. Parker's smooth forehead was wrinkled; his face was clouded.
"You are right, Mr. Walmsley," he admitted. "I wish—I wish she would listen to reason. We'll have a talk together—the three of us—soon. You've no idea how difficult it is! She doesn't know fear—can't realize danger. Hush! Here she comes. It will only set her against you if she thinks you are trying to influence me behind her back."
Mr. Parker's car was waiting and we drove together to Covent Garden. I left them in the vestibule and went to call on some of my friends. My sister had a box in the second tier and I was fortunate enough to find her there and alone with her husband. Almost directly underneath us in the stalls Mr. Parker and Eve were sitting; and next Mr. Parker was a woman wearing a pearl necklace. I asked my sister her name. She raised her lorgnette and looked over the side of the box.
"Lady Orstline," she told me. "Her husband is a South African millionaire."