'I don't think so. It's imagination. However, whatever it is I don't
want it.'

'Good-bye, then,' said Cecil.

He went to the door.

'You can let me know when you've seen her.'

'I don't suppose she'll see me.'

'Yes, she will now. It's the psychological moment.'

'You shan't be bothered with me any more, anyhow,' said Cecil in a low
voice.

'Good. And do what I tell you.'

He shut the shabby door of the little house with a loud bang, and went
out with a great longing to do something vaguely desperate.

Lunch produced a different mood. He said to himself that he wouldn't
think of Mrs Raymond any more, and went to call on Hyacinth.

The servant told him she was out.

He was just turning away when Anne Yeo came out. She glanced at him with
malicious satisfaction.

'Hyacinth's gone to the National Gallery,' she volunteered. 'Did you