"All right. Put his address in my pocket-book. I will look him up. My special chum, Dick Cameron, is to be out there in November, investigating one of their queer water-cures. I wish you knew Dick Cameron, Helen. I shall hope to see him, too. Has your cousin a spare room in his flat?"
"I do not know. Ronnie, Aubrey Treherne is not a good man. He is not a man you should trust."
"Darling, you don't necessarily trust a fellow because he puts you up for the night. But I daresay Dick will find me a room."
"Aubrey is not a good man," repeated Helen firmly.
"Dear, we are none of us good."
"You are, Ronnie—in the sense I mean, or I should not have married you."
"Oh, then, yes please!" said Ronnie. "I am very, very good!"
He laughed up at her, but Helen's face was grave. Then a sudden thought brightened it.
"If you really go to Leipzig, Ronnie, could you look in at Zimmermann's—a first-rate place for musical instruments of all kinds—and choose me a small organ for the new church? I saw a little beauty the other day at Huntingford; a perfect tone, twelve stops, and quite easy to play. They had had it sent over from Leipzig. It cost only twenty-four pounds. In England, one could hardly have bought so good an instrument for less than forty. If you could choose one with a really sweet tone, and have it shipped over here, I should be grateful."
"With pleasure, darling. I enjoy trying all sorts of instruments. But why economise over the organ? If my wife fancied a hundred guinea organ, I could give it her."