“Told Geoffrey!” he exclaimed in much amazement. “Pray explain yourself. You are speaking in riddles, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Told him about the other evening—before the races; it was too shameful. Oh, you might have spared me!” covering her face with her hands.
A dead silence. At last his answer came in a cold formal voice.
“If I had done what you imagine, I certainly would richly deserve to forfeit the name of gentleman. I am surprised that even you” (with scathing emphasis) “should ask me to vindicate myself from such a charge. I have not told Geoffrey—strange as it may appear to you—and am sorry that after all you should have such a mean opinion of me still.”
Alice removed her hands, but averted her face as she said:
“You did not tell him? Then what could he mean?”—hesitatingly.
“Am I responsible for Geoffrey’s random remarks?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, no, of course not. Please forgive me, Reginald; I did you a great injustice!” looking at him with lovely deprecating eyes. “Do?” she pleaded.
“You know very well, Alice,” he answered earnestly, “that I could forgive you anything. You have only to ask, and it is granted.”
“Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a broad hint with a vengeance.”