He intercepted her petulant march to the door.
"I wish you'd tell me what's the matter. It isn't only a headache."
"It's Hell and the Devil and all his angels," said Emmy, "and I'd like to murder somebody."
"You can murder me, if it would do you any good," said Septimus.
"I believe you'd let me," she said, yielding. "You're a good sort." She turned, with a short laugh, her novel held in both hands behind her back, one finger holding the place. A letter dropped from it. Septimus picked it up and handed it to her. It bore an Italian stamp and the Naples postmark.
"Yes. That's from him," she said resentfully. "I've not had a letter for a week, and now he writes to say he has gone to Naples on account of his health. You had better let me go, my good Septimus; if I stay here much longer I'll be talking slush and batter. I've got things on my nerves."
"Why don't you talk to Zora?" he suggested. "She is so wonderful."
"She's the last person in the world that must know anything. Do you understand? The very last."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," he replied ruefully.
"She doesn't know anything about Mordaunt Prince. She must never know. Neither must mother. They don't often talk much about the family; but they're awfully proud of it. Mother's people date from before Noah, and they look down on the Oldrieves because they sprang up like mushrooms just after the Flood. Prince's real name is Huzzle, and his father kept a boot shop. I don't care a hang, because he's a gentleman, but they would."