George Bessamy shook out his napkin, picked up his knife and fork, and then put them down again. The children had been taken off to their rooms by one of the two housemaids. One of them was wailing out into the still evening air—but then, one of them always did. “My dear,” he said to his wife, who was pushing food into her mouth with single-minded absorption, “I was so carried away with the news of my illustrious client that I quite forgot to tell you about Miss Blane.” “Sally?” mumbled Emily vaguely. “What about Sally?” “Your sister walked into my office this morning, carrying a suitcase and asking me to sign a letter to some charity.” “Did she, dear?” “What charity?” “I couldn’t really say,” said Emily placidly. “She was not concerned about charities this morning. She said something about wanting that two hundred pounds so that she could go to London and become a newspaperwoman. Quite touching, really. At her age, I wanted to become a nun.” Mr.
