"Because," she said, "it'll only mean a lot more bother for me."

I believe I meditated on this before I asked her, "Why should it?"

"Because it isn't easy to get away and earn your own living in this
country. And they'll try, poor dears, to stop me. And they can't."

"If they don't," I said, "are you sure it won't mean a lot of bother for
_them_?"

"Not," she said gravely, "if they're left alone and not worried. It will,
of course, if you go and write and stir them all up again."

"I see. For the moment, then, they are placated?"

"Rather." (I wondered on what grounds.) "We settled _that_ last night."

"Then--" I said, "forgive my asking so many questions--your people know
you had this appointment with me?"

Her eyebrows took a little tortured twist in her pity for my stupidity.

"Oh no. That would have upset them all for nothing. It doesn't do to
worry them with silly details. You see, they don't know anything about
you."

It was exquisite, the innocence with which she brought it out.

"But," I insisted, "that's rather my point. _You_ don't know anything