“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Oh, dear, no,” said Septimus mildly.  “I could never make out why anybody liked it.”

Seeing that Septimus had a sentimental side to his character, Emmy gradually took him into her confidence, until Septimus knew things that Zora did not dream of.  Zora, who had been married, and had seen the world from Nunsmere Pond to the crater of Mount Vesuvius, treated her sister with matronly indulgence, as a child to whom Great Things were unrevealed.  She did not reckon with the rough-and-tumble experiences of life which a girl must gain from a two years’ battle on the stage.  In fact, she did not reckon with any of the circumstances of Emmy’s position.  She herself was too ignorant, too much centered as yet in her own young impulses and aspirations, and far too serene in her unquestioning faith in the impeccability of the Oldrieve family.  To her Emmy was still the fluffy-haired little sister with caressing ways whom she could send upstairs for her work-basket or could reprimand for a flirtation.  Emmy knew that Zora loved her dearly; but she was the least bit in the world afraid of her, and felt that in affairs of the heart she would be unsympathetic.  So Emmy withheld her confidence from Zora, and gave it to Septimus.  Besides, it always pleases a woman more to tell her secrets to a man than to another woman.  There is more excitement in it, even though the man be as unmoved as a stock-fish.

Thus it fell out that Septimus heard of Mordaunt Prince, whose constant appearance in Emmy’s London circle of friends Zora had viewed with plentiful lack of interest.  He was a paragon of men.  He acted like a Salvini and sang like an angel.  He had been far too clever to take his degree at Oxford.  He had just bought a thousand-guinea motor car, and—­Septimus was not to whisper a word of it to Zora—­she had recently been on a three-days’ excursion with him.  Mordaunt Prince said this and Mordaunt Prince said that.  Mordaunt paid three guineas a pair for his brown boots.  He had lately divorced his wife, an unspeakable creature only too anxious for freedom.  Mordaunt came to see her every day in London, and every day during their absence they corresponded.  Her existence was wrapped up in Mordaunt Prince.  She traveled about with a suit-case (or so it appeared to Septimus) full of his photographs.  He had been the leading man at the theater where she had her last engagement, and had fallen madly, devotedly, passionately in love with her.  As soon as the divorce was made absolute they would be married.  She had quarreled with her best friend, who had tried to make mischief between them with a view to securing Mordaunt for herself.  Had Septimus ever heard of such a cat?  Septimus hadn’t.