“And you will say ‘No’ to any more from this--writer’s pen?”
“To any more about Spain I most certainly shall.”
The Count reflected. What little light the London day afforded fell full upon his long narrow face, upon the pointed Velasquez chin, the receding iron-grey hair brushed straight back.
“And the fact that the writer is supporting herself and a worn-out old uncle by her pen will make no difference?”
John Craik hesitated for a moment.
“Not the least,” he then said. “You seem to know the writer.”
“I do, and I am interested in her.”
“A lady?” John Craik was dotting his i’s with the contemplativeness of artistic finish.
“Essentially so.”
“And poor?”