“Hallo, Mary!” he said. “Hadn’t you better get ready for your mother?”
“No,” she responded rather coldly and bitingly, “I’ve put mother off.”
He glanced at her with self-control. She looked, he thought, far more bitter than usual.
“That’s a pity, because you will be alone—dear. Besides, the stalls will be wasted.”
“No, they won’t,” she said. “You’ll stay at home with me, and take me to the St. James’s. You can easily put off your man at the club.” She looked him full in the eyes.
Colour rose to his face and then faded away.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but that’s impossible.”
“It isn’t impossible—you mean you don’t want to do it. … Oh, do please—please, Nigel!” She came towards him and played with his tie—the trick of hers that he hated most.
She mistook his silence, which was hesitation as to what plan to adopt, for vacillation, and thought she was going to win. …
“Oh, ’oo will, ’oo will!” she exclaimed, with a rather sickly imitation of a spoilt child, with her head on one side. It was a pose that did not suit her in any way.