"Am I to understand that she is engaged to you?"
Mr. Quentin hated these direct questions, and why should Lisle look at him as if he were a witness that he was examining on his oath?
"What is it to you?" he returned evasively. "Come now, Lisle," leaning on his elbow, and smiling into the other's face with one of his most insinuating expressions.
"Answer my question first," roughly.
"Well, I will."
Word fencing was easy to him, and he never thought it any harm to dissemble with a woman, and juggle his sentences so that one almost neutralized another; they were fair game, but a man was different. With men he could be frank enough—firstly, because he had more respect for his own sex; and secondly, because their eyes were not likely to be blinded by love, admiration, or vanity. Meanwhile, here was Lisle, an obstinate, downright fellow, sternly waiting for his reply. An answer he must have, so he made a bold plunge, and said, with lowered eyelids and in a confidential voice,—
"What I tell you is strictly masonic, mind—but I know you are to be depended on. There is no actual engagement as yet between Helen and me—but there is an understanding!"
"I confess, the distinction is too subtle for me. Pray explain it!"
"How can I go to her father whilst my money affairs are in such a confounded muddle? Until I can do that, we cannot be what you call engaged. Do you see?"
"I see. But there is one thing I fail to see—that Miss Denis treats you differently to any one else, or as if she were attached to you—in fact, latterly, it has struck me that she rather avoids you than otherwise!"