"What do you take me for? I haven't seen the fellow. I say, what made you think that?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon—I'm sorry. But you asked whether I wanted to stay here; that was like suggesting I should go somewhere else, wasn't it? So I thought you might mean that I should go—go back, you know. I'd sooner kill myself."
"Oh, please drop it. I wasn't talking about that. I'm off to Monte Carlo on Tuesday." He looked down at his well-polished broad-welted brown boots; he was always admirably shod. Yet he seemed to find no inspiration, or not a very happy one. "Got over it, haven't you?"
Winnie shrank into her shell. "I think I prefer your dumb sympathy. How can you expect me to talk about it?"
"Put my foot in it?"
"Well, yes, rather." Her right hand beat a tattoo on the arm of her chair.
"Always do," remarked Bob reflectively, his eyes still on his boots. He was not surprised that she thought his question badly phrased—necessary preliminary as it was in substance.
"Oh, nonsense. You're a dear. But have you really anything you're trying to say?"
He must jump now—or he must refuse. He saw it, and courage came with the need for it.
"I say, could you think of coming with me to Monte?" He raised his eyes, and looked her full in the face as he put the question. He had courage—but the puzzle was terribly persistent. "Will she come, or will she kick me out?"—is a brief summary of his inward questioning; he thought it about equal betting.