"Yes." She corrected herself. "My people live there."

"Oh! Because--in that case--I'm sorry--but--the fact is, I'm afraid--" I
floundered, and she watched me floundering. Then I plunged. "I must have
a typist who lives in London." (And I might have added "a typist who
won't open fire on me at close range.")

"But," she said, "I do--at least, I'm going to to-morrow evening."

I must have sat staring then quite a long time, not at her, but at one of
Roland Simpson's sketches on the wall in front of me.

She followed, but not quite accurately, the direction of my thoughts.

"If you want references, I can give you heaps. General Thesiger's my
uncle. Why? Do you know him?"

I had ceased staring. He was not the General I knew, but she had spoken a
sufficiently distinguished name. I said as much.

"Of course lots of people know him," she went on with a sort of radiant
rapidity. "And he knows lots of people. But I wouldn't write to him if I
were you. He'll only be rude, and ask you who the devil _you_ are.
There's my father, Canon Thesiger. It's no good writing to him, either.
It'll worry him. And there's--no, you mustn't bother the Archbishop. But
there's the Dean. You might write to _him_! And there's Colonel
Braithwaite and Mrs. Braithwaite. They're all dears. You might write to
any of them. Only I'd much rather you didn't."

"Why?" I said. I thought I was entitled to ask why.