"Are you an escapist?" inquired Neville solicitously. "Is that why you write improbable novels? Have you felt the banality of real life to be intolerable?"
"My novels aren't improbable! It may interest you to know that the critics consider me as one of the six most important crime novelists."
"If you think that you're a bad judge of character," said Neville.
Helen gave a strangled shriek of exasperation. "Oh, don't, don't! What does any of that matter at a time like this? What am I to do?"
Sally turned away from Neville. "All right, let's get this thing straight," she said. "I don't feel I've got all the data. When did you start falling for Ernie Fletcher?"
"I didn't. Only he was so attractive, and - and he had a sort of sympathetic understanding. Almost a touch of the feminine, but not quite that, either. I can't explain. Ernie made you feel as though you were made of very brittle, precious porcelain."
"That must have added excitement to your life," said Neville reflectively.
"Shut up! Go on, Helen! When did it all begin?"
"Oh, I don't know! I suppose from the moment I first got to know him - to know him properly, I mean. You mustn't think that he - that he made love to me, because he didn't. It wasn't till just lately that I realised what he wanted. I thought - oh, I don't know what I thought!"
"You didn't think anything," explained Neville kindly. "You floated away on a sea of golden syrup."