The door opened, and, as I expected (I don't know why, but it happens like that in dreams), Dolly Mickleham came in. She did not seem to see me. She bowed to Rhadamanthus, smiled, and took a chair immediately opposite the table.
'Mickleham—Dorothea—Countess of' she said.
'Formerly, I think, Dolly Foster?' asked Rhadamanthus.
'I don't see what that's got to do with it,' said Dolly.
'The account runs on,' he explained, and began to consult his big book. Dolly leant back in her chair, slowly peeling off her gloves. Rhadamanthus shut the book with a bang.
'It's not the least use,' he said decisively. 'It wouldn't be kind to pretend that it was, Lady Mickleham.'
'Dear, dear,' said Dolly. 'What's the matter?'
'Half the women in London have petitioned against you.'
'Have they really?' cried Dolly, to all appearance rather delighted. 'What do they say, Mr. Rhadamanthus? Is it in that book? Let me look.' And she held out her hand.
'The book's too heavy for you to hold,' said he.
'I'll come round,' said Dolly. So she went round and leant over his shoulder and read the book.
'What's that scent you've got on?' asked Rhadamanthus.
