“My first day’s escape from a fœtid prison,” she said.
“I suppose you know what you’re talking about,” said Myra.
Olivia laughed and threw her arm round Myra’s lean shoulders.
“Of course I do.”
“He ain’t much to look at.”
Olivia, flushing, turned on her.
“I never knew a more abominable woman.”
“Then you’re lucky,” retorted Myra, and faded away into her kitchen.
Olivia, mirthful, uplifted, danced, as it were, into the sitting-room and began to pull off her gloves. Suddenly her glance fell on a letter lying on her writing table. She frowned slightly as she opened it, and as she read the frown grew deeper. It was from Bobby Quinton. What his dearest of dear ladies would think of him he left on the joint knees of the gods and of his dearest lady—but—but the wolves were at his heels. He had thrown them all that he possessed—fur coat, watch and chain, diamond studs, and, having gulped them all, they were still in fierce pursuit. In a fortnight would he have ample funds to satisfy them. But now he was at bay. He apologized for the mixture of metaphor. But still, there he was aux abois. Fifty pounds, just for a fortnight. Could the dearest of dear ladies see her way——-?
She went to her desk and wrote out a cheque which she enclosed in an envelope. To save her soul alive she could not have written Bobby Quinton an accompanying line.