This was a facer, but his companion was equal to the occasion. "That is easily explained," he replied. "She is the very shyest girl that you ever saw—in public."
Mr. Quentin thoroughly understood the art of innuendo, and the management of the various inflections of the human voice. He was a matchless amateur "star," and could "act" off, as well as on the stage.
After receiving this confidence, Mr. Lisle was silent; he leant back in his chair, and nearly bit his cigar in two. That last speech of Jim's had made him feel what the Americans call "real bad." A very long gap in the conversation ensued, and then he, as it were, roused himself once more,—
"Then she is engaged to you!"
"No, not quite, not altogether—but our position is such, that no man of honour, knowing it, would take advantage of the situation,—would he?"
"No—of course not."
And with this admission the subject dropped.
Mr. Quentin had succeeded brilliantly. He had assured Lisle that he was not engaged; and yet he had impressed him with the fact that an engagement existed—indeed, he had almost persuaded himself, that there was an understanding between him and Helen! "Understanding" was a good, useful, elastic word; it might mean an understanding to play tennis, to sit next each other at an afternoon tea, or to share the same umbrella!
"No, no, Mr. Gilbert Lisle," he said to himself exultantly, as he watched the other's gloomy face, "I'm not just going to let you cut me out—not if I know it. 'Paws off, Pompey.'"