“Don’t like secrecy,” said Clementina.
“You can take whatever action you like,” he said, hastily. “It’s in order that you may act in his interest that I’m here. I only want you to give me your word that you won’t compromise me personally. I assure you, you’ll see why when I tell you the story.”
Clementina reflected for a moment. It was a danger threatening Quixtus. It might be important. This little weasel of a man was of no account.
“All right,” she said. “I give my word. Go ahead.”
She took a pinch of tobacco from the yellow package and a cigarette paper, and, sitting in a chair in the cool draught of the door opening on to the garden, with shaky fingers rolled a cigarette.
“Sit down. You can smoke if you like. You can also help yourself to tea. I won’t have any.”
Vandermeer poured himself out some tea and cut an enormous hunk of cake.
“I warn you,” said he, drawing a chair within conversational distance, “that the story will be a long one—I want to begin from the beginning.”
“Go ahead, for goodness’ sake,” said Clementina.
Vandermeer was astute enough to conjecture that a sudden denunciation of Mrs. Fontaine might defeat his object by exciting her generous indignation; whereas by gradually arousing her interest in the affairs of Quixtus, the climactic introduction of the execrated lady might pass almost unrecognised.