“Roman. You mean Superbus?”
She nodded.
“Whom did he want?” she asked, playing with her serviette ring.
“He was looking for a robber, a man named”—he cast up his eyes, trying to recall the title—“Double Dan, a swindler.”
“Is that so?” drawled Diana, her eyes on the tablecloth. “Are you going, Gordon? What time will you be home?”
“When my business permits me to return,” he said in his stateliest fashion. “Do you realise, Diana, that nobody has ever asked me that question in my life?”
“Why, I ask you every day,” she said in wonder.
“I mean, nobody except you. My comings and goings have never been questioned, and for the life of me I don’t see why they should be questioned now.”
“I’m not questioning you, I’m merely asking you,” said Diana, aggrieved. “I only want to know because of dinner.”
“I may not be home to dinner,” said Gordon shortly, and went forth to an actuarial orgy, for business had improved at an enormous rate recently, and he was engaged in organising a new form of insurance.