"But Ashley's not a fellow to be forced into what he doesn't care about."
"Not forced, no," murmured Ora. The method was not so crude as that.
"And we've no right to take the lady's feelings for granted."
"Oh, no," said Ora earnestly.
"There are certainly no signs of anything of the sort at present."
"At present! No!" she cried almost indignantly. Then she detected a hint of amusement in Bowdon's eye and began to laugh. In spite of all the sorrow and pain involved in the renunciation, its spice of secrecy and mystification sometimes extorted a smile from her; people were so hopelessly puzzled about it, so very far from guessing the truth, and so wide of the mark in their conjectures. Bowdon evidently shared the general bewilderment and felt a difficulty in talking to her about Ashley Mead. She presented him with another topic.
"The news about you and Irene made me so happy," she said. "Irene's such a dear."
"You're very kind," he muttered. This topic was not much less awkward than the other, and Ora's enthusiasm had imparted to her manner the intense cordiality and sympathy which made Irene say that she conveyed the idea of expecting to be kissed; he preferred that she should not suggest that idea to him.
"It's such a lovely arrangement in every way," she pursued. "Isn't it?" Her eyes were raised to his; she had meant to be quite serious, but her look betrayed the sense of fun with which she offered her congratulations. She could not behave quite as though nothing had ever passed between them; she was willing to minimise but declined to annihilate a certain memory common to them. "I'm going to come and see you very often when you're married," she went on. Bowdon was willing enough to meet her subtly hinted mockery.
"I hope you'll be very discreet," he said with a smile.