Philip’s story and Leopold’s and mine must all agree. These horrible police who will not let us see each other or write to each other know that we couldn’t all have invented it. But they will not tell me what either of them said. I do not even know what I am accused of. They never tell me anything outright. They treat me as if I was something very precious and very guilty. I can hear you say: my dear Olura, I have not the least interest in your personal affairs, which is what you always say when you really are interested but disapprove. You have the caution of a wise, old eunuch in a harem. You would have liked to marry me off at nineteen to some grave young man sure to succeed his father as Lord Lieutenant of the County or confine me in an ivory cage on a fairy-story glass mountain. But you haven’t had so much to throw stones at as you think. Philip says I am like what he calls the three bloody monkeys. When you meet him … Oh, that when!
