THE CASE OF THE FRENCHMAN’S GLOVESMr Albert Campion was considering the hundred and fifteenth unintelligible oil painting under the muslin-shaded lights of the Excelsior Gallery’s stuffiest room, and wondered if it was honest reaction or merely age which made him yearn for an occasional pair of gluey-eyed, human-faced dogs by old Mr Landseer. A pathetic sigh at his shoulder recalled him to his duty as a nursemaid. He glanced at Felicity apologetically.
‘Do you like this?’
‘Tremendously,’ said Miss Felicity Carrington stoutly, adding, with a touch of candour induced by sheer physical exhaustion, ‘if you do.’
A memory of his own youth returned to Mr Campion enlighteningly.
‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘my dear child, you’re not enduring this for my sake, are you?’
Felicity blushed, bringin
