"I'm so sorry," Edith murmured humbly. "Shall I go and give Spottles his bath? Poor old boy, he's been rolling again, Cook says." And by the way in which she washed her own hands as she went out of the room Cousin Edith managed to suggest with suitable regret that she too had been rolling. Within three days of this conversation Harry Vibart called on Jasmine at Rouncivell Lodge. "Look here," he said reproachfully, "why didn't you ever write?" "You never wrote to me." Jasmine tried to be cold and dignified, but she was so glad to see him again that it was not a successful attempt. "I wrote you six letters." "I never got them. I expect my aunt wouldn't allow them to be forwarded." Vibart was sure that Jasmine was misjudging her. No one could have been more anxious to help him find Jasmine. Why, she had taken the trouble to write to Mrs. Grave-Smith for his address, had asked him to lunch and then volunteered Jasmine's address, and, what is more, advised him to go and call on her. The Italian half of Jasmine was capable of being suspicious; it warned her that people like Aunt May did not so abruptly change their point of view. Why should she have sent him here? Why?... Why?... It must be that Lettice and Pamela had a chance of being married at last and that in a spasm of generosity she wished to help her niece ... or was it that she was afraid of having her on her hands, and hoped to palm her off on Harry Vibart? Such an idea froze her, and the young man, taken aback by her change of expression, asked what was the matter. "I'm afraid you must have found it a very long way up to Muswell Hill," she said stiffly. "Longish. Longish," he agreed. "But I took a taxi." At this moment the window of the room in which they were sitting was darkened by a shadow, and there was Uncle Matthew with his face pressed against the pane and wearing an expression of malevolence, ferocity, and alarm. When they looked up, he waved his sticks above his head and snarled at them. "It's a lunatic," exclaimed Harry Vibart. "No, no, it's my uncle." "I say, I'm awfully sorry. Perhaps he's ill." Uncle Matthew was still waving his sticks so oddly and making such strange faces that Jasmine was alarmed and ran out to see what was upsetting him. "Are you ill?" she asked. "Ill? Ill? No. But I shall be ill in a moment. Listen!" From the direction of the gates of Rouncivell Lodge the engine of a taxi throbbed upon the warm June air. "He thinks it's an aeroplane," Vibart whispered. "Poor old chap, he's probably afraid it's going to fall on the house. Old people who haven't seen many of them do often get worried like that. It's all right, sir," he added in a louder voice, "it's only my taxi running up the twopences."