“Suppose we stop,” she said. “There is no use in finishing the game if our hands are out. I am rather tired of it.”
“Certainly—if you wish it.”
“I will finish if you like.”
“Not at all. What pleases you, pleases me.”
Gertrude made him a little bow, and idly knocked the balls about with her cue. Erskine’s eyes wandered, and his lip moved irresolutely. He had settled with himself that his declaration should be a frank one—heart to heart. He had pictured himself in the act of taking her hand delicately, and saying, “Gertrude, I love you. May I tell you so again?” But this scheme did not now seem practicable.
“Miss Lindsay.”
Gertrude, bending over the table, looked up in alarm.
“The present is as good an opportunity as I will—as I shall—as I will.”
“Shall,” said Gertrude.
“I beg your pardon?”