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there’d be a letter each month from her , and I kept a special evening for them too. It was ideal …”
    Louisa could see that it had been. Now that she wasn’t going to marry him herself, now that she regarded him dispassionately, she could see it was the very thing for him: a sentimental attachment—a long-distance attachment—neatly compartmented from, not interfering with, the solid comforts of Gladstone Mansions. It was a particularly galling reflection that she herself, at Cannes, had no doubt been merely an Enid-surrogate—F. Pennon on holiday, with time for sweeter things on his hands …
    â€œDid she teach you to carry aspirins?” asked Louisa abruptly.
    â€œEnid? As a matter of fact, yes. How did you guess?”
    â€œNever mind,” said Louisa, beginning to eat again. “Go on. Where do I come in?”
    But Freddy was still gazing nostalgically towards the writing desk.
    â€œI’d just bought a new seal, an agate,” he mourned. “It had Semper Fidelis on it.—Now the poor chap’s dead!”
    â€œAnd I suppose Enid expects you in Buenos Aires?” prompted Louisa, not quite patiently. “I still don’t see where I —”
    With an effort he jerked himself back to the present.
    â€œActually her boat docks the day after tomorrow,” said F. Pennon. “She’s come …”
    Though still eating fast, Louisa met his desperate eye with renewed sympathy. Who wouldn’t, thought Louisa, in such a situation, be terrified? To worship afar for eighteen years, and then to have one’s idol all at once within reach! And not only within reach but positively, so to speak—and soon now, indeed, without metaphor—in one’s lap! For Louisa had no doubt in the world, she read it in F. Pennon’s every agitated glance, that in those monthly letters he had absolutely committed himself. Enid had come home to marry him.
    â€œCongratulations,” said Louisa, “and cheer up. When does she get to London?”
    â€œShe isn’t coming to London,” said F. Pennon. “She’s going straight to my house at Bournemouth.—What else can she do? She hasn’t a penny, poor gel—and I can hardly pay her hotel bills! So she’s going to Bournemouth. That’s where we’re going to meet. And that’s where I want you to come too,” said F. Pennon rapidly, “dear Louisa, just to help me over the hump.”
    5
    Louisa swallowed the last crumbs of plum cake and rose. At least she had had a good tea.
    â€œDear Freddy,” said Louisa, “not on your life.”
    Just as Hugo when she left him on his sickbed, Freddy stared incredulously.
    â€œBut, Louisa—”
    â€œI quite see why you’ve been telephoning me,” said Louisa, more kindly, “I even see that it wasn’t a bad idea. You’ve still, so far as I can judge, got to marry her—”
    â€œOf course I’m going to marry her!” cried F. Pennon, with belated fervor. “Dammit, I want to marry her! Only I can’t, I tell you I positively can’t, be all alone with her for the first few days. There’s got to be a—well, a buffer. Come to Bournemouth just for a week—”
    â€œYou could hardly introduce me as a buffer,” said Louisa coldly.
    â€œOf course not. I shouldn’t think of it. You’ll be a friend I have staying with me. Probably she’ll take it for a delicate piece of chaperoning. I dare say she’ll expect chaperoning—”
    â€œDuennas, in Argentina, are probably still all the go,” agreed Louisa. “Haven’t you any female relatives?”
    â€œNo. I tell you you’re the only woman I’ve been able to think of—you with your wonderful understanding of a man, you who’re such a thorough good sort—”
    â€œListen,” interrupted Louisa. “Listen carefully. I know that’s my