“I can’t help myself. I can’t let a pal like Jimmy down. But you needn’t worry. I’ve had time to wade through them, and I see now why people always hint that bigwigs don’t write their own reminiscences but hire someone to do it for them. As a writer, Stylptitch is an insufferable bore. He proses on about statecraft, and doesn’t go in for any racy and indiscreet anecdotes. His ruling passion of secrecy held strong to the end. There’s not a word in the memoirs from beginning to end to flutter the susceptibilities of the most difficult politician. I rang up Balderson today, and arranged with him that I’d deliver the manuscript tonight before midnight. But Jimmy can do his own dirty work now that’s he’s here.”

“I’m off,” said Jimmy. “I like the idea of that thousand pounds⁠—especially when I’d made up my mind I was down and out.”

“Half a second,” said Anthony. “I’ve got a confession to make to you, Virginia. Something that everyone else knows, but that I haven’t yet told you.”

“I don’t mind how many strange women you’ve loved so long as you don’t tell me about them.”