“I knew a woman once,” she said, “who was always tied up for money. And
she used to come to Aunt Beatrice. She never asked her right out, but
she used to tell her the awful plight she was in and say if she couldn’t
get someone to lend her two hundred dollars she’ld have to kill herself
and—and look volumes. . . . Well, it wasn’t pretty.”
“No,” said Kilmuir. “But how does that apply?”
“I realized the other night that I’d done exactly the same—told you in
so many words _how you could rescue me_. . . . You see, I didn’t know
then that you were married. If the woman had come and told me how poor
she was, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I had nothing. But Aunt
Beatrice had the means. In the same way, my telling you my plight
doesn’t matter now, because you can’t help.”
There was a long silence.