“You meant that?”
He nodded emphatically. “I did. I do.”
“You’d speak to father?”
His eyes shifted. “If you compelled me to.”
“Look at me, Peter.”
With considerable difficulty he forced his eyes to meet hers. All the latent selfishness and pettiness in his nature seemed to her to be flaunting from them. “I’m doing what’s best for you,” said he sullenly.
She gave that short, nasty Dan Richmond laugh of hers—and his own face certainly did not suggest the sunny and generous side of his character. “Very well, dear Peter,” said she. “We’re engaged.”
“And the marriage is next month, remember,” he insisted. “We want to get to London before the end of the season.”
“The thirty-first of next month.” She was still looking at him with eyes full of sardonic—one might say, satanic—mirth. “Poor Peter!” she said.
“I can take care of myself,” retorted he jauntily. “And of you, too. Your father understands you. He’ll see to it that you don’t have the chance to make a fool of yourself and spoil your life after you’re married.”