“Well—what was it Angela called her yesterday?—alluring, elusive?”
“Only as outdoor nature is. On Angela’s lips the terms would savour too much of a boudoir atmosphere; lace tea-gowns and languor. This child is a wild rose open to the sky, dewy, un peu sauvage; anything less alluring in Angela’s sense of the word was never seen.”
Geoffrey, who had heard a multitude of wild-rose raptures, received this one with composure.
“I assure you, Geoffrey,” Maurice went on, growing the more confidential for his momentary reticence, “I assure you that if I could afford it I would fall in love with that enchanting girl.”
“And since you can’t afford it, pray do nothing so nonsensical. Meanwhile, what of Angela?”
“You are really rather gross, my dear Geoffrey. Why meanwhile? Why drag in Angela?”
“Because, to speak grossly, she can afford to fall in love with you. Don’t flirt with this girl and risk trying Angela’s affection too far.”
Maurice again shrugged his shoulders irritably.
“My dear Geoffrey, Miss Merrick isn’t that sort. One flirts in the boudoir—not in the breezes of a heath. And then there is nothing to risk; I have no right to suppose that I have Angela’s affection.”
“Rot! my dear Maurice. You have done your best to win it. What has this last year of dallying meant?”