She laughed with the air of a small bird who after long waiting had at last got even with a hawk. But I did not even smile. For the only time in our lives I considered that Agatha had committed a breach of good taste. I said rather stiffly:
“It is not going to be a lovers' meeting, my dear.”
She flushed. “It was silly of me. But why shouldn't it be a lovers' meeting?” she added audaciously. “If nothing had happened, you two would have been married by this time—”
“Not till June.”
“Oh, yes, you would. I should have seen about that—a ridiculously long engagement. Anyhow, it was only your illness that broke it off. You were told you were going to die. You did the only honourable and sensible thing—both of you. Now you're in splendid health again—”
“Stop, stop!” I interrupted. “You seem to be entirely oblivious of the circumstances—”
“I'm oblivious of no circumstances. Neither is Eleanor. And if she still cares for you she won't care twopence for the circumstances. I know I wouldn't.”
And to cut off my reply she clapped the receiver of the telephone to her ear and called up Eleanor, with whom she proceeded to arrange a date for the interview. Presently she screwed her head round.
“She says she can come at four this afternoon. Will that suit you?”
“Perfectly,” said I.