She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of spring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum, that I put down my pen and I smiled.
"You are, my dear," said I, "but it doesn't matter."
"What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold.
"I am writing my presidential address," said I, "for the Grand Meeting, next month, of the Hafiz Society."
"I wonder," said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet."
I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand.
"If that's all you've got to say—"
"But it isn't."
She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my long oak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely in my chair.
"Then, what is it?" I asked.