"You said the other day that it would mean worry for you in any case—after to-morrow—whether the charge is dismissed or not!"
His wicker chair creaked under him.
"I don't see why it should," she persisted, "if the case falls through."
"Well, that's where I come in," he had to say.
"Surely you mean just the other way about? If they commit the man for trial, then you do come in, I know. It's like your goodness."
"I wish you wouldn't say that! It hurts me!"
"Then will you explain yourself? It's not fair to tell me so much, and then to leave out just the bit that's making you miserable!"
The trusty, sisterly, sensible voice, half bantering but altogether kind, genuinely interested if the least bit inquisitive, too, would have gone to a harder or more hardened heart than beat on Blanche's balcony that night. Yet as Cazalet lighted his pipe he looked old enough to be her father.
"I'll tell you some time," he puffed.
"It's only a case of two heads," said Blanche. "I know you're bothered, and I should like to help, that's all."