“Not always,” said Flora.
Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her, bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so. He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner: “I say, you know, you mustn’t worry. About that young chap, I mean. Inspector’s an ass. Everybody knows—utterly absurd to think he could have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That’s the only possible solution.”
Flora turned to look at him. “You really think so?”
“Don’t you?” said Blunt quickly.
“I—oh, yes, of course.”
Another silence, and then Flora burst out: “I’m—I’ll tell you why I felt so happy this morning. However heartless you think me, I’d rather tell you. It’s because the lawyer has been— Mr. Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty thousand pounds. Think of it—twenty thousand beautiful pounds.”
Blunt looked surprised.
“Does it mean so much to you?”
“Mean much to me? Why, it’s everything. Freedom—life—no more scheming and scraping and lying—”
“Lying?” said Blunt, sharply interrupting.
Flora seemed taken aback for a minute. “You know what I mean,” she said uncertainly. “Pretending to be thankful for all the nasty cast-off things rich relations give you. Last year’s coat and skirts and hats.”