“And you’ve come to Wyngate to—er—to write?” he went on. “Very interesting—very!”
Lexy felt her cheeks grow hot. She wished with all her heart that she had not involved herself in that stupid falsehood. It humiliated her so much that she couldn’t answer Dr. Quelton with her usual spirit. He noticed her confusion—no doubt about that.
“Poetry, perhaps?” he suggested.
“No!” said Lexy vehemently. “Not poetry!”
He leaned forward a little, looking directly into her face.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you write detective stories?”
“Yes!” said Lexy.
The doctor rose.
“The solving of mysteries!” he said, with his unpleasant smile. “That makes very interesting fiction!”
Lexy rose, too. His tone, his manner, exasperated her almost beyond endurance. She felt an ardent desire to contradict everything he said. What is more, she was in no humor to hear mystery stories made light of. She had had enough of that—first Mrs. Enderby pretending there was no mystery, and then Mr. Houseman going off and pretending it was solved, so that she was left alone to do the best she could. Wasn’t she in a mystery story at this very minute, and without a single promising clew to guide her?