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'Then,' Father Consett said, 'if ye know him so well, Sylvia Satterthwaite, how is it ye can't get on with him better? They say: Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner.'

'It isn't,' Sylvia said. 'To know everything about a person is to be bored...bored...bored!'

'And how are you going to answer this telegram of his?' the Father asked. 'Or have ye answered it already?'

'I shall wait until Monday night to keep him as bothered as I can to know whether he's to start on Tuesday. He fusses like a hen over his packings and the exact hours of his movements.' On Monday I shall telegraph: "Righto" and nothing else.'

'And why,' the Father asked, 'will ye telegraph him a vulgar word that you never use, for your language is the one thing about you that isn't vulgar?'

Sylvia said:

'Thanks!' She curled her legs up under her on the sofa and laid her head back against the wall so that her Gothic arch of a chinbone pointed at the ceiling. She admired her own neck, which was very long and white.

'I know!' Father Consett said. 'You're a beautiful woman. Some men would say it was a lucky fellow that lived with you. I don't ignore the fact in my cogitation. He'd imagine all sorts of delights to lurk in the shadow of your beautiful hair. And they wouldn't.'