Don’t be a silly ass. I thought you had more sense than the ordinary
futile sort of woman. I am not in the least fascinated by Mrs. Harrison.
She quite simply interests me as a type—a personality, that is. It is
my job to be interested in people. I might want to use that kind of
person in a book some day.
Good heavens! If I was “fascinated” by her, I shouldn’t be likely to
analyse her in that dispassionate way. She is essentially a suburban
vamp, as I think I said before, if you have thought any of my remarks
worth remembering. And I never said she was beautiful. Her mouth is
sloppy and bad. . . .
* * * * *
Later: Saunders Enfield burst in on me when I was writing this, and
hauled me out to lunch with him. On returning, with the better part of a
bottle of perfectly good Corton inside me, I realise that the brilliant
line of defence I am taking up is exactly the one I should equally have
taken if the accusation had been true. I should have said just those
things, in exactly that tone of exasperated superiority, and I should
have elaborated them with such a wealth of detail that you could not
have failed to disbelieve every word of it.
My first impulse (after lunch, I mean) was to destroy the incriminating
paper, and to ignore your observations altogether. But I think that
would probably have a highly suspicious appearance also. Upon my word, I
don’t believe there _is_ any convincing reply to such a charge.
Except to tell you that I honestly don’t care a damn for any woman in
the world except one. And if you don’t believe that, my child, then it
doesn’t matter what you think of me, because I shall be beyond caring.
I believe you’re only pulling my leg, anyhow. Blast you! Don’t do it
again.
And believe me (as the business people say),
Yours faithfully,
JACK