'Out and out. I daresay you'd smile if I told you that I asked her to help me to get you to change your mind.'
'No,' Margaret answered, turning slowly to look at him. 'She tells me so in this letter.'
'Does she really?' Van Torp had guessed as much, and had wished to undermine the surprise he supposed that Margaret had in store for him. 'That's just like her straightforward way of doing things. She told me frankly that she wouldn't lift a finger to influence you. However, it can't be helped, I suppose.'
The conclusion of the speech seemed to be out of the logical sequence.
'She has done more than lift a finger now,' Margaret said.
'Has she offended you?' Van Torp ventured to ask, for he did not understand the constant subtone of anger he heard in her voice. 'I know she would not mean to do that.'
'No. You don't understand. I've telegraphed to ask her to join us here.'
Van Torp was really surprised now, and his face showed it.
'I wish we were somewhere alone,' Margaret continued. [{225}] 'I mean, out of the way of Mrs. Rushmore. She knows nothing about all this, but she saw me cramming the letters into my glove, and I cannot possibly let her see me giving them to you.'
'Oh, well, let me think,' said the millionaire. 'I guess I want to buy some photographs of Bayreuth and the Parsifal characters in that shop, there on the right. Suppose you wait outside the door, so that Mrs. Rushmore can see you if she turns around. She'll understand that I'm inside. If you drop your parasol towards her you can get the letters out, can't you? Then as I come out you can just pass them to me behind the parasol, and we'll go on. How's that? It won't take one second, anyhow. You can make-believe your glove's uncomfortable, and you're fixing it, if anybody you know comes out of the shop. Will that do? Here we are. Shall I go in?'