Miss Cloke started.
“A—a godsend?” she stammered.
“A godsend,” said Crispin comfortably. “But let that pass. I’ll tell you why presently. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of something like this.” Eleanor opened her mouth, shut it, hesitated and then sat down. “I couldn’t very well say so, but when Madge first suggested that we should hunt in pairs I thought it was playing with fire. You see, as you hint in your letter, I—well, I’ve had some, Nell. It’s a difficult thing to say, but . . .”
The sentence slid into an apologetic snigger.
“You’re rather—rather popular?” said Eleanor, using an odd, strained tone.
“Exactly. Heaven knows why, but you wouldn’t believe the number of, er, applications I’ve had in the last five years.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed.
“What fools women are,” she said.
“And men,” said Crispin, with a generous air. “And men—often enough. In the present case, I wasn’t afraid for myself because, though you’re awfully attractive, Nell, I’m—I’m funny like that.” He laughed self-consciously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve got one simply appalling fault.”
“One—yes?”