“Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——”
“Can appendices die?” said Nicholas.
Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter.
Kilmuir regarded her gravely.
There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were dreamt of in her philosophy.
“What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John.
“I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan.
The man shook his head.
“I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with anyone else.”
“You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the glorious mop of hair. . . .”