I leant back and watched her raising her little dark eyebrows in amused surprise.
"Has he sent you here?" she asked.
"I came on my own blundering initiative," I said. "I don't know what the trouble's about."
"But whatever it is, I'm to blame?"
"Probably."
Sylvia was delighted. "If a man doesn't think highly of women I do like to hear him say so!"
"As a matter of fact I'm not concerned to apportion blame to either of you. You're both of you abnormal and irrational; as likely as not you're both of you wrong. I wanted to tell you something about the Seraph you may not have heard before."
In a dozen sentences I told her of my first meeting with him in Morocco.
"Thanks to you," I said, "he's pretty well got over it. Remember that I saw him then, and you didn't; so believe me when I tell you he was suffering from what the novelists call a 'broken heart.' He won't get over it a second time."
"You're sure it was broken?" she asked dispassionately. "Um. It sounds to me like a dent; press the other side, the dent comes out."