‘Well?’ said Mathilda.

‘It’s nothing much, but you took such an intelligent interest in my work that I wanted to tell you that I’ve thought over what you said, and come to the conclusion you were right. Either Wormwood is good enough to stand on its own merits, or it had better be chucked into the incinerator. I daresay that you heard Paula say that she would put it on. Well, I shan’t let her. The whole idea of getting a backer was wrong.’

‘I see,’ said Mathilda, more than a hint of dryness in her voice.

‘I felt I’d like you to know.’

‘Yes, I quite see.’

‘Of course, Paula doesn’t quite understand. She’s so keen to play the part. As a matter of fact, the idea of getting her uncle to back the play was hers, not mine. I don’t really think I ought to have let her talk me into it. I never was quite happy about it, and then when you said what you did, I made up my mind that I wouldn’t be under an obligation to anyone over it. Paula doesn’t see it in that light yet. Of course, it’s very generous of her, but –’

‘But equally embarrassing,’ supplied Mathilda.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that exactly! Only, I thought that you might be able to make her understand my point of view. I mean, if she says anything to you about it.’

‘I should think,’ said Mathilda, extracting the butt of her cigarette from its holder, and throwing it into the fire, ‘that she would be quite capable of appreciating your point of view without any assistance.’

He looked sharply at her; she met his challenging stare steadily, and after a few moments his eyes shifted from hers, and he said lamely: ‘You see, she’s tremendously keen on the play. It’s rather difficult for me to say anything.’

‘Yes, I should think it might be,’ she agreed.

He said in an injured tone: ‘I thought you would understand the way I feel.’

‘I do.’

‘Well, then –’ he began uncertainly. He did not seem to know how to continue, and started again. ‘Besides which, I don’t think it’s altogether wise of her to talk so openly about what she means to do with her legacy, do you? I mean, it might so easily give people a totally wrong impression.’

‘Of her, or of you?’

The colour rushed up into his face; he looked very much discomposed, but after a moment blurted out: ‘Of both of us, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ said Mathilda. ‘I like you so much better when you’re honest, Mr Roydon.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I had ever been anything else,’ he said stiffly.

She saw that she had deeply offended him, and was not sorry that Paula should choose that moment to stalk into the room.

‘Why,’ demanded Paula, in her deep, throbbing voice, ‘are the police letting us alone this morning?’

‘I can’t think. I was merely thankful,’ replied Mathilda.