“Doesn’t it seem good to you?”
“Wonderfully good! But what about—scandal and all that?”
She laughed gaily, so that the commissionaire outside the theatre turned to smile at her.
“Scandal? I’m immune against it. It never worries me,—especially when I’ve souls to save.”
“Are you saving mine?”
He was afraid he might lose it.
“By the scruff of its neck.”
They drove to Battersea Park, and she gave him her hand up the long flight of stone steps to her fourth floor flat, where she stopped and panted a little before fumbling in her hand-bag for her latch key.
The flat was in darkness, but she switched on the lights and the electric fire.
“Ever made cocoa?” she asked.