She was a little unhealthy thing, dark and sallow
and sulky, with thin lips that showed a lack of temperament, and she
had a stiffness and preciseness, like a Board School teacher--just that
touch of "commonness" which Lena relied on to put him off. She wore a
shabby brown skirt and a yellowish blouse. Her name was Ethel Reeves.
Lena had secured safety, she said, in the house. But what was the good
of that, when outside it he was going about everywhere with Sybil
Fermor? She came and told me all about it, with a sort of hope that I'd
say something either consoling or revealing, something that she could
go on.
"_You_ know him, Roly," she said.
I reminded her that she hadn't always given me that credit.
"_I_ know how he spends his time," she said. "How do you know?"
"Well, for one thing, Ethel tells me."
"How does she know?"
"She--she posts the letters."
"Does she read them?"
"She needn't. He's too transparent."
"Lena, do you use her to spy on him?" I said.
"Well," she retorted, "if he uses her--"
I asked her if it hadn't struck her that Sybil Fermor might be using
him?
"Do you mean--as a _paravent_? Or," she revised it, "a parachute?"
"For Bertie Granville," I elucidated.
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