Christina bit her lip in thought.
"I will see Ronnie—tonight. No, I will go alone. I have been resting all day. You must go home. Have you brought your car? Good. I will borrow it. Give me the letter."
Beryl protested, but the girl was firm.
"You must not go—perhaps I am wrong about Ronnie, but I don't think so. Sir John Maxton has the same mad dream."
"What do you mean?"
Christina smiled. "One day I will tell you."
The vision of her daughter dressed for going out temporarily deprived Mrs. Colebrook of speech. Before she could frame adequate comment, Christina was gone.
She dropped Beryl at her house and drove to Knightsbridge. The porter was not sure whether Mr. Morelle was in or out. It was his duty to be uncertain. He took her up to Ronnie's floor and waited until the door opened.
"My dear, what brings you here at this hour?"
He had been out, he told her. A Royal Society lecture on Einstein's Theory had been absorbing. He was so full of the subject, so alive, so boyish in his interest that for a while he forgot the hour and the obvious urgency of her call.