Chapter Twenty-One
Primrose was in conversation with Miss Middleton-Murray when the door to the yellow salon opened. Miss Middleton-Murray had asked Primrose which were her favorite authors and was listening with flattering attention to her reply, but Primrose wasn’t fooled; Miss Middleton-Murray had as much interest in books as Primrose had in embroidery, which was to say, none.
She’s buttering me up.
The question was: Why?
Primrose was pondering this—while at the same time explaining why Pliny’s letters made such fascinating reading—when the door opened and Oliver poked his head into the room. He conducted a quick scan of the occupants, saw her, rubbed his nose, and withdrew.
Primrose lost her train of thought. Oliver had looked a little odd, not quite like his usual self.
It took
