“Perhaps it’s as well,” he muttered. “You see. . . . Nell, my dear, it’s your walk.”
“My what?” shrieked Eleanor.
“Your walk—carriage, my dear. In repose you’re immense. Standing by the table just now, you were simply it. But when you move—I don’t know what it is, but you, er, you don’t do yourself justice. You’re inclined to . . . to . . .”
“Waddle?” said Eleanor mercilessly.
“Not exactly waddle, but. . . . Well, perhaps you would call it ‘waddling.’ But it’s nothing to write home about. The trouble is I’m afraid it’s occurred to David.”
“What has? My wal—waddle?”
“Your walk. I may be wrong, but. . . . Nell, it’s your only blemish, but, as it happens, the one thing David’s noticed ever since I’ve known him was the way a woman walked. When you two said you were engaged, you could have knocked me down. But apparently——”
“He happens,” said Eleanor icily, “to have affirmed on more than one occasion that I had the bearing of a queen.”
Crispin shrugged his shoulders.
“Love is blind,” he said shortly. “But of course I may be wrong. Still, if it isn’t that, I don’t know what it is. If you wash that out, you’re practically flawless,” and with that he leaned back, thrust his cigar between his lips and smoked luxuriously.