“Wait a minute,” said Forsyth, rising. “If he’s prepared to meet you, won’t you stay?” Belinda shook her head. “It’s infinitely better to talk this over at once. It’ll save no end of correspondence.” “I can’t help that,” said Miss Seneschal. “The position’s impossible enough. Think, Mr. Forsyth. We’ve each got to share something with the one person in the world with whom we can share nothing. We’re mutual thorns in the flesh. I tell you frankly, the very thought of him makes me tired, and I fancy the sight of me would send him out of his mind.” “If you’ll forgive my saying so, it would be a great deal more likely to bring him to your feet.” “I don’t want him at my feet.” “It’s a very good place to have a joint-owner,” said Forsyth. Miss Seneschal hesitated. “D’you say it’s necessary for us to meet?” “By no means. But it’s highly expedient.” Finger to lip, Belinda stared at the door. At length— “Very well,” she said. “That’s right,” said Forsyth relievedly. “I’ll go and bring him up.” As the lawyer turned— “Mr. Forsyth.” “Yes.” “You’ll—you’ll make it plain that, er, that I . . .” “I shall say I wrung your consent from you.” “Of course,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “you should have been an ambassador.” Forsyth smiled back. “Sometimes I am,” he said. The next moment he was gone. As he entered the waiting-room— “Good morning, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “Here’s a go.” “What’s happened?” said Forsyth. “Ointment for two,” said Pomeroy, searching his pockets, “complete with bluebottle. Listen. The deceased—God bless him—has left me a most desirable residence—cesspool and all. It’s a peach of a place, overlookin’ the Bay of Biscay. What’s torn it up——” “I know,” said Forsyth. Pomeroy stared. “Know?” he said. “But——” “Miss Seneschal’s upstairs.” Pomeroy started. Then he picked up his hat and was stepping a-tiptoe to the door. “Here,” said Forsyth, detaining him, “I’ve—I’ve persuaded her to see you.” “Not on your life,” said Pomeroy. “I—I’m rather frail this morning.” “Will you renounce?” “What, an’ let her have the lot? Not likely.” “Then come upstairs,” said Forsyth. “The matter’s got to be discussed—obviously. You don’t want to write about forty letters, do you?” “No, but——” “Well, that’s what it means. More. In a case like this _oratio obliqua_’s hopeless. One never gets down to things.” Pomeroy hesitated. “It’s all damned fine, Forsyth,” he said uneasily, “but we haven’t met since—since the dust-up. Besides, it’s—it’s a very ticklish business—revivin’ memories.” With a considerable effort Forsyth maintained his gravity. “I beg that you’ll do as I say. Miss Seneschal sees the wisdom of an ordinary business talk. Surely you’re not going to be the one to resist.” Pomeroy stared upon the floor. At length— “Oh, all right,” he said. “If she wants it. . . .” “That’s right,” said Forsyth, shepherding him out of the room. . . . A moment later he stood before his lady.