"Your landlady. I called at your rooms." "But why on earth didn't you send up a message to the office? Or 'phone me? I could have been with you half an hour ago if I'd known." She answered: "I should have done, but--I thought you might not want to see me." "Not _want_ to see you? Good heavens, why shouldn't I?" She shrugged her shoulder and then said: "Oh, never mind.... Let's go somewhere--where we can talk." So she wanted to talk. Looking back on it now, it seems incredible that I didn't guess what her attitude would be. I suppose that Terry's letter had made me feel ever so slightly a hero, with its "I shall always thank you for what you did and said." Perhaps, subconsciously, I was in the mood that expects congratulation; at any rate, I wasn't prepared for censure. I looked out for a taxi, thinking I would take her to tea somewhere in the West End; but she said impatiently: "We can go _there_," and pointed to a Lyons tea-shop on the other side of Fleet Street. "But surely----" I began; and she interrupted sharply: "_There_, I tell you. This is business, not pleasure." We threaded our way amongst the marble-topped tables, and as she passed a waitress she gave a rather defiant order for two cups of tea. Then she selected a table, sat down, and began immediately, with a sort of point-blank hostility: "So--after all--you've managed to persuade him?" "You--you mean--Terry?" And she answered, with that peculiar greenish glint in her eyes that made her look rather more wonderful than ever: "Yes, I mean Terry." She was watching me mercilessly across the table; yet, even then, I couldn't see what cause she had to be displeased with me. I said, with genuine sincerity: "Well--honestly--don't you really think it'll be a good chance for him--going to Vienna with Karelsky?" And she answered, with a bitter, mocking laugh: "_Honestly_--I _don't_ think it'll be a good chance for him--and--_honestly_--I think you'd far better have minded your own business...."