“Tony it must be. Most decidedly Tony.” His voice was brisk with decision. The brown eyes brightened in anticipation. “Perhaps even occasionally, ‘Dear.’”
“Oh, no!” Juliet shook her head obstinately. “No ‘dears’! I’ve been strictly brought up. I’m shy. No demonstrations in public. I’ve no brothers, you see, and have led a secluded life.”
“Yes, yes, there’s Phil; you must remember Phil. It was your brother Phil who introduced us at Henley. You were staying with friends.”
“I have friends near Henley. Their name is Jones. Can you remember Jones? Mr Jones, solicitor; Mrs Jones; Miss Jones; Miss Florence Jones; Mr Reginald Jones, son, junior partner.”
“Just so. Reginald, of course, is Philip’s friend. Phil is, like myself, home on leave. That simplifies things for you. By the by, he is in China, in the Customs.”
“Poor dear Philip; with all these horrid riots. I do feel anxious about him!” sighed naughty Juliet in response; then, suddenly, “I wonder,” she had cried soberly, “if I ought! I hate to deceive people, even for their own good. I wonder if I ought to go on.”
“But surely”—he stared at her in amazement—“it’s your profession! It would be impossible to do inquiry work if people knew from the beginning what you were about. Why did you—excuse me—choose such a profession if your conscience is so tender?”
“I—I didn’t realise. It was arranged in a hurry. I don’t think I shall take any more cases.”
“No, don’t!” Antony cried eagerly. “It’s all right this time, for you have fallen among people who will treat you properly, but it might be so different. Haven’t you a home where you can live safely and comfortably?”
“Very comfortably indeed, but I happen to be one of the horde of superfluous women who need something more than comfort.”