“Yes, but it’s very long and gets into his eyes. It’s odd hair, anyway. And when did the flaming arrow pin your two hearts together?”
“It was that evening you played baccarat at Curzon Street—about ten days ago. You didn’t think we’d known long, did you? Oh, my dear, I couldn’t have kept the secret any longer.”
Next day Sylvia lunched with Jack Airdale and came to the point at once.
“Look here, you detestably true-to-type, impossibly sensitive ass, because I to please me lent you fifty pounds, is that any excuse for you to keep me out in the cold over you and Olive? Seriously, Jack, I do think it was mean of you.”
Jack was abashed and mumbled many excuses. He had been afraid Sylvia would despise him for talking about marriage when he owed her money. He felt, anyway, that he wasn’t good enough for Olive. Before Olive had known anything about it, he had been rather ashamed of himself for being in love with her; he felt he was taking advantage of Sylvia’s friendship.
“All which excuses are utterly feeble,” Sylvia pronounced. “Now listen. Olive’s ill. She ought to go abroad. I very selfishly want a companion. You’ve got to insist on her going. The fifty pounds I lent you will pay her expenses, so that debt’s wiped out, and you’re standing her a holiday in the Mediterranean.”
Jack thought for a moment with a puzzled air.
“Don’t be absurd, Sylvia. Really for the moment you took me in with your confounded arithmetic. Why, you’re doubling the obligation.”
“Obligation! Obligation! Don’t you dare to talk about obligations to me. I don’t believe in obligations. Am I to understand that for the sake of your unworthy—well, it can’t be dignified with the word—pride, Olive is to be kept in London throughout the spring?”
Jack protested he had been talking about the loan to himself. Olive’s obligation would be a different one.