“Not at all.”
Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturb the stillness of the night.
“You were going to tell me about yourself?” said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger) Kemp.
“I'm going to tell you all about myself,” said Sally, “not because I think it will interest you...”
“Oh, it will!”
“Not, I say, because I think it will interest you...”
“It will, really.”
Sally looked at him coldly.
“Is this a duet?” she inquired, “or have I the floor?”
“I'm awfully sorry.”
“Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you, but because if I do you won't have any excuse for not telling me your life-history, and you wouldn't believe how inquisitive I am. Well, in the first place, I live in America. I'm over here on a holiday. And it's the first real holiday I've had in three years—since I left home, in fact.” Sally paused. “I ran away from home,” she said.
“Good egg!” said Ginger Kemp.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, quite right. I bet you were quite right.”
“When I say home,” Sally went on, “it was only a sort of imitation home, you know. One of those just-as-good homes which are never as satisfactory as the real kind. My father and mother both died a good many years ago. My brother and I were dumped down on the reluctant doorstep of an uncle.”
“Uncles,” said Ginger Kemp, feelingly, “are the devil. I've got an... but I'm interrupting you.”
“My uncle was our trustee. He had control of all my brother's money and
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