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 discussed. Veronica's coming here this afternoon," she said abruptly. "She's a chilly person. I'd better light the fire."

"God!" said Maurice.

Penelope was on her knees before the fireplace, her head almost inside the grate. Her voice came hollowly from the dark recess.

"I thought you'd be surprised," she said. ("Damn, it will not light!")

"Surprised!" said Maurice. "Penelope,"—his tone had the deadly reasonableness of a driven man's—"I think you hardly realise what you're doing. I know you meant well, my good girl, but really It puts us in such an impossible position. Surely you must see."

"I see quite well," she assured him. "You and she both breathe and have your being in an atmosphere of conspiracy; it's your natural element, of course. To force you into the straighter, broader courses of the uncomplex would be as cruel as to upset a bowl with gold-fish in it and leave them gasping on the tablecloth. Ooh!" She sat back on her heels and ruefully beheld her grimy fingers.