He did not like that, and showed it.
'And I—don't!' Connie went on with a dazzling smile. 'Well, you're staring at me. How do I look?'
So she played her fish, with just enough hint of her power, with just enough submission to the legitimate sway she invited him to exercise. It was all very dexterous; there was probably no other road to her end. If it seems in some ways not attractive—well, we must use the weapons we have or be content to go to the wall. When she bade him good-night—still Mrs. Fricker was strong on reputable hours, and Connie herself assumed a new touch of scrupulousness (she was a free lance no more)—his embrace did not lack ardour. She disengaged herself from his arms with a victorious laugh.
Her mother waited for her, vigilant but approving—just a little anxious too.
'Well, Connie, is he very happy?'
'It's all right, mamma.' Her assurance was jovially impudent. 'I can do just what I like with him!'
'You'll have a job sometimes,' opined Mrs. Fricker.
'That's half the fun.' She thought a moment, and then spoke with a startling candour—with an unceremoniousness which Mrs. Fricker would have reproved twenty-four hours earlier. 'I'm very fond of him,' she said, 'but Beaufort's a funk in the end, you know.' She swung herself off to bed, singing a song. Her title to triumph is not to be denied. Peggy Ryle had furnished the opportunity, but the use of it had been all her own. A natural exultation may excuse the exclamation with which she jumped into bed:
'I knew Mrs. Trevalla wouldn't be in it if I got a fair show!'