Teresa laughed.
‘Oh!’ she said, ‘that’s just like Micky, just like Micky.’
The frank, innocent gaiety of that laugh made Richard forget Teresa’s fibs of the previous night. He could think of nothing but her beauty, her youth, her present candour. He wished to warn her. In spite of the obvious foolishness of such a course, he wished to warn her—against herself.
‘Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Craig,’ he said suddenly, and all the time he cursed himself for saying it, ‘that Mr. Craig’s—er—mode of life, and your own, might expose you to the trickeries of scoundrels, or even to the curiosity of the powers that be? Permit me, though our acquaintance is so brief and slight, to warn you against believing that things are what they appear to be.’
There was a pause.
‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she said slowly, ‘do you mean to imply——’
‘I mean to imply nothing whatever, Miss Craig.’
‘But you must——’
‘Listen. I saw you at the circus yesterday, and in the——’
He stopped at the word ‘chalk-pit.’ He thought that perhaps he had sacrificed himself sufficiently.