Presently she screwed her head round.
"She says she can come at four this afternoon. Will that suit you?"
"Perfectly," said I.
When she replaced the receiver I stepped behind her and put my hands on
her shoulders.
"'The mother of mischief,'" I quoted, "'is no bigger than a midge's
wing,' and the grandmother is the match-making microbe that lurks in
every woman's system."
She caught one of my hands and looked up into my face.
"You're not cross with me, Simon?"
Her tone was that of the old Agatha. I laughed, remembering the
policeman's salute of the previous night, and noted this recovery of
my ascendancy as another indication of the general improvement in the
attitude of London.
"Of course not, Tom Tit," said I, calling her by her nursery name. "But
I absolutely forbid your thinking of playing Fairy Godmother."
"You can forbid my playing," she laughed, "and I can obey you. But you
can't prevent my thinking. Thought is free."
"Sometimes, my dear," I retorted, "it is better chained up.
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