“Oh yes, she could—trust her,” laughed Walter. “It is very odd,” he went on, “but I have always had an idea, somehow, that there was a feminine attraction at Liphook. If it was the young lady we saw with him that morning at Waterloo Station, I don’t think much of her. How did you manage to pay all the bills, Floggie dear? You didn’t owe a penny when I came back, and had saved something too—I never knew such a frugal little woman.”
“Steggall’s bill was the worst,” Florence said; “there were endless waggonettes.”
“Probably she spent her time in showing Wimple the beauties of the country. How did you manage to pay them all, Floggie?”
“Lived on an egg one day, and nothing the next.”
“That’s what a woman always does. A man would have robbed Peter to pay Paul. You ought to have a reward. It is too cold at Easter, but if I could get away for a fortnight this Whitsuntide we might take a run to Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo makes me think of Mrs. North. I should like to see her again; she was very fascinating.”
“Why didn’t you go and see her?”
“I was not sure that you would like it. There was evidently something wrong.”
He was silent for a few minutes. “Do you know,” he said presently, “when there is something wrong with a woman I think it is a reason for going, and not for staying away. It’s the only chance for setting it right. What is the use of goodness if it isn’t used for the benefit of other people?”
“Walter,” Florence said, and she stood up and clasped her hands—“she said nearly the same thing to me that evening she was here. There was something almost desperate in her manner; it has haunted me ever since; and I should have gone to see her but that I was afraid of your being angry.”