“By all means,” said I. “Come in!”
She entered and looked round my little sitting-room. “What a pill-box in the sky! I had no idea it was as tiny as this. I think I shall call you Saint Simon Stylites.”
I was in no mood for Agatha. I bowed ironically and inquired to what I owed the honour of the visit.
“I want you to do me a favour—a great favour. I'm dying to see the new dances at the Palace Theatre. They say they dance on everything except their feet. I've got a box. Tom promised to take me. Now he finds he can't. I've telephoned all over the place for something uncompromising in or out of trousers to accompany me and I can't get hold of anybody. So I've come to you.”
“I'm vastly flattered!” said I.
She dismissed my sarcasm with bird-like impatience.
“Don't be silly. If I had thought you would like it, I should have come to you first. I didn't want to bore you. But I did think you would pull me out of a hole.”
“What's a hole?” I asked.
“I've paid for a box and I can't go by myself. How can I? Do take me, there's a dear.”
“I'm afraid I'm too dull for haunts of merriment,” said I.